Of  the  Academy  Edition  of  the 
International  ^/tuthors   there   ha*    been 
printed  and  bound  l.OOO 
of  Which    this    if   set 


^^&    Cbe 
V> 

yt;    international  Bjiitbors 


m 


TRESPASSER 


4t^'FT//y>.s-.  att<1  -imitfe  the   sfgn 


of  /Ar  Crow. 

" 


G.    MERCER    ADAM 


Cbe  BcaOems  BDftion 

•• of  •• 
Ifnternational  Butbors 


TRESPASSER* 


Hubert  Guilo 

Bftron,  ©bio 


COPYRIGHT,   1893, 
By  D.  APPLETON  AND  COMPANY. 


MADE    BY 

THE  ST.  HUBERT  GUILD 

WORKSHOPS  : 
AKRON,  OHIO 


TO 

DOUGLAS  ROBINSON,  Esq., 

AND 

FRANK  A.   HILTON,  Esq. 

My  dear  Douglas  and  Frank: 

I  feel  sure  that  this  dedication  will  give  you  as 
much  pleasure  as  it  does  me.  It  will  at  least  be  evi- 
dence that  I  do  not  forget  good  days  in  your  com- 
pany here  and  there  in  the  world.  I  take  pleasure 
in  linking  your  names ;  for  you,  who  have  never  met, 
meet  thus  in  the  porch  of  a  little  house  that  I  have 
built. 

You,  my  dear  Douglas,  will  find  herein  scenes, 
times,  and  things  familiar  to  you ;  and  you,  my  dear 
Frank,  reflections  of  hours  when  we  camped  by  an 
idle  shore,  or  drew  about  the  fire  of  winter  nights, 
and  told  tales  worth  more  than  this,  for  they  were 
of  the  future,  and  it  is  of  the  past. 
Always  sincerely  yours, 

GILBERT 


M35840 


BIOGRAPHY  OF  THE  AUTHOR. 

By  the  General  Editor. 

SIR  (HORATIO)  GILBERT  PARKER,  M.  P.,  LL.  D., 
is  best  known  to  the  readers  of  modern  fiction  by  his 
stirring  tales  of  life  and  adventure  in  French  Canada, 
from  the  period  of  the  Conquest  onwards,  in  which 
figure,  besides  the  picturesque  French  habitant,  half- 
breed  trapper,  and  coureur  de  bois,  young  seigneurs, 
the  peres  and  abbes  of  New  France,  and  the  later  day 
employe's  of  the  great  Hudson  Bay  Company  whose 
posts  and  hunting  grounds  extended  over  the  wide 
domain  of  northern  Canada  from  Labrador  and  Un- 
gava  District  westward  to  the  watershed  of  the 
Great  Lakes  and  the  far-off  Pacific.  This  is  the  re- 
gion the  novelist  best  knows,  and  of  which  he  has 
given  us  characteristic  glimpses  of  its  varied  life,  but 
chiefly  among  that  which  gathered  under  the  lilies 
of  France  at  the  old  French  capital  on  the  St.  Law- 
rence at  the  period  of  the  Conquest.  The  stories 
which  typify  the  latter  period,  in  the  author's  heroic 
tales,  are  the  collection  known  as  "  Pierre  and  his 
vii 


Vl  BIOGRAPHY   OF   THE   AUTHOB. 

People,  "  and  the  longer  novels,  "  The  Trail  of  the 
Sword, "  "  The  Seats  of  the  Mighty,  "  and  "  When 
Valmond  came  to  Pontiac, "  all  of  which  are  related 
in  picturesque  fashion,  with  fine  dramatic  effect,  and 
made  attractive  by  tender  touches  of  romance. 

Outside  of  this  region,  that  of  his  native  Canada, 
Sir  Gilbert  Parker  has  travelled  far,  including  tempo- 
rary residence  in  Australia,  Egypt,  the  Channel 
Islands,  and  other  dependencies  cf  the  British  Crown; 
though  of  recent  years  he  has  found  a  home  in  Lon- 
don, and  there  he  has  interested  himself  in  British 
politics  on  the  Conservative  and  Imperialist  side,  to 
an  extent  which  has  opened  the  doors  of  Parliament 
to  him  and  in  1902  won  for  him  knighthood.  The 
literary  fruit  of  his  later  years  includes  such  novels  as 
"  The  Trespasser,  "  "Donovan  Pasha,  ""The  Battle 
of  the  Strong,  "  "  The  Pomp  of  the  Lavilettes,  "  "  The 
Right  of  Way, "  "  Mrs.  Falchion,  "  and  "  The  Lane 
that  had  no  Turning. "  In  these  stories  we  have 
much  of  the  glow  and  splendor  of  past  times,  in 
which  come  and  go  stalwart  figures  who  perform 
great  deeds,  and  whose  exploits  and  adventure  are,  for 
the  main  part,  told  in  vigorous,  forceful,  yet  dignified 
English. 

The  facts  of  Sir  Gilbert  Parker's  personal  career 
may  be  briefly  related:  He  is  the  son  of  an  artillery 
officer  who  came  to  Canada  with  Sir  John  Colborne 


BIOGRAPHY   OF   THE   AUTHOR.  IX 

( the  soldier  governor-general  of  the  colony  who  re- 
pressed the  rebel  rising  in  Lower  Canada  in  1838  )  and 
was  born  in  Addington  county,  Ontario,  in  1862. 
After  receiving  an  elementary  education,  he  passed  to 
the  Episcopal  university  of  Trinity  College,  Toronto, 
where  he  graduated  and  for  a  time  was  lecturer  in 
English  literature.  At  his  alma  mater  he  studied 
for  the  church  and  was  ordained  deacon  in  1882. 
Several  years  later,  ill-health  induced  him  to  visit 
Australia,  and  at  Sydney  he  was  engaged  for  a  time  in 
journalism,  after  which  he  travelled  in  the  South  Seas 
and  finally  found  his  way  to  London,  where  he  settled 
in  1890  and  began  to  contribute  to  the  magazines  his 
short  stories,  followed,  later  on,  by  his  many  and 
characteristic  novels.  In  1900,  as  we  have  hinted,  he 
actively  entered  political  life,  and  strenuously  advo- 
cating imperialism  was  rewarded  with  knighthood 
two  years  later.  His  literary  career,  so  far,  has  been 
a  successful  one,  his  writings,  especially  those  that 
graphically  deal  with  his  native  Canada,  earning  him 
merited  fame  and  some  measure  of  competence. 
Some  years  ago,  he  is  understood  to  have  taken  an 
American  lady  to  wife.  Still  young,  much  is  yet 
looked  for  in  the  domain  of  fiction  from  his  skilled 
and  busy  pen. 

G.  MERCER  ADAM. 
New  York,  Oct.,  1906. 


CONTENTS. 


CHAPTER  PAGX 

I. — ONE  IN  SEARCH  OF  A  KINGDOM  .        .        .       .11 

II. — IN   WHICH   HE    CLAIMS   HIS   OWN       ....        20 
III. — HE   TELLS   THE   STORY   OF   HIS   LlFE        ...        33 

IV. — AN  HOUR  WITH  HIS  FATHER'S  PAST  ...  61 

V. — WHEREIN  HE  FINDS  HIS  ENEMY  ....  75 

VI. — WHICH  TELLS  OF  STRANGE  ENCOUNTERS     .        .  89 

VII. — WHEREIN  THE  SEAL  OF  HIS  HERITAGE  is  SET    .  102 

VIII. — HE  ANSWERS  AN   AWKWARD   QUESTION  .  .121 

IX.— HE  FINDS  NEW  SPONSORS    .        ...        .135 

X. — HE   COMES   TO   "  THE   WAKING  OF   THE   FlRE  "       .      148 

XI. — HE  MAKES  A  GALLANT  CONQUEST   .   .   .  160 

XII. — HE    STANDS    BETWEEN   TWO    WORLDS     .           .           .173 
XIII. — HE   JOURNEYS   AFAR 180 

XIV. — IN  WHICH  THE  PAST  is  REPEATED       .        .        .    192 
XV. — WHEREIN  is  SEEN   THE  OLD  ADAM  AND    THE 

GARDEN  .        . 214 

XVI. — WHEREIN  LOVE  KNOWS  NO  LAW  SAVE  THE  MAN'S 

WILL 225 

XVII. — THE  MAN  AND  THE  WOMAN  FACE  THE  INTOLER- 
ABLE                .       .    241 

XVIII.—"  RETURN,  0  SHULAMITE  ! "  .        .       ...    261 


THE  TRESPASSER. 


CHAPTER  I.     ,•"    *   ; 

ONE   IK   SEARCH   OF   A   KINGDOM. 


WHY  Gaston  Belward  left  the  wholesome  North  to 
journey  afar,  Jacques  Brillon  asked  often  in  the  brawl- 
ing streets  of  New  York,  and  oftener  in  the  fog  of 
London  as  they  made  ready  to  ride  to  Ridley  Court. 
There  was  a  railway  station  two  miles  from  the  Court, 
but  Belward  had  had  enough  of  railways.  He  had 
brought  his  own  horse  Saracen,  and  Jacques'  broncho 
also,  at  foolish  expense,  across  the  sea,  and  at  a  hotel 
near  Euston  Station  master  and  man  mounted  and  set 
forth,  having  seen  their  worldly  goods  bestowed  by 
staring  porters,  to  go  on  by  rail. 

In  murky  London  they  attracted  little  notice ;  but 
when  their  hired  guide  left  them  at  the  outskirts,  and 
they  got  away  upon  the  highway  towards  the  Court, 
cottagers  stood  gaping.  For,  outside  the  town  there 
was  no  fog,  and  the  fresh  autumn  air  drew  the  people 
abroad. 

"  What  is  it  makes  'em  stare,  Jacques  ?  "  said  Bel- 
ward,  with  a  humorous  sidelong  glance. 


2  THE  TRESPASSER. 

Jacques  looked  seriously  at  the  bright  pommel  of 
his  master's  saddle  and  the  shining  stirrups  and  spurs, 
dug  a  heel  into  the  tender  skin  of  his  broncho,  and 
replied : 

"  Too  much  silver  all  at  once." 
•  He'  tossed  his  curling  black  hair,  showing  up  the 
gold, rings  ?n  his  ears,  and  flicked  the  red-and-gold 
tassels  of  his  boots. 

"  You  think  that's  it,  eh  ? "  rejoined  Belward,  as 
he  tossed  a  shilling  to  a  beggar. 

"  Maybe,  too,  your  great  Saracen  to  this  tot  of  a 
broncho,  and  the  grand  homme  to  little  Jacques 
Brillon!" 

Jacques  was  tired  and  testy. 

The  other  laid  his  whip  softly  on  the  half-breed's 
shoulder. 

"  See,  my  peacock :  none  of  that.  You're  a  spank- 
ing good  servant,  but  you're  in  a  country  where  it's 
knuckle  down  man  to  master ;  and  what  they  do  here 
you've  got  to  do,  or  quit — go  back  to  your  peasoup 
and  caribou !  That's  as  true  as  God's  in  heaven,  little 
Brillon.  We're  not  on  the  buffalo  trail  now.  You 
understand  ?  " 

Jacques  nodded. 

"  Hadn't  you  better  say  it  ?  " 

The  warning  voice  drew  up  the  half-breed's  face 
swiftly,  and  he  replied : 

"  I  am  to  do  what  you  please." 


ONE  IN  SEARCH  OF  A  KINGDOM.  3 

"Exactly.  You've  been  with,  me  six  years — ever 
since  I  turned  Bear  Eye's  moccasins  to  the  sun  ;  and 
for  that  you  swore  you'd  never  leave  me.  Did  it  on  a 
string  of  holy  beads,  didn't  you,  Frenchman  ? 5> 

"  I  do  it  again." 

He  drew  out  a  rosary,  and  disregarding  Belward's 
outstretched  hand,  said : 

"  By  the  Mother  of  God,  I  will  never  leave  you ! " 

There  was  a  kind  of  wondering  triumph  in  Bel- 
ward's  eyes,  though  he  had  at  first  shrunk  from 
Jacques'  action,  and  a  puzzling  smile  came. 

"  Wherever  I  go,  or  whatever  I  do  ?  " 

"  Whatever  you  do,  or  wherever  you  go." 

He  put  the  rosary  to  his  lips,  and  made  the  sign  of 
the  cross. 

His  master  looked  at  him  curiously,  intently. 
Here  was  a  vain,  naturally  indolent  half-breed,  whose 
life  had  made  for  selfishness  and  independence,  giving 
his  neck  willingly  to  a  man's  heel,  serving  with  blind 
reverence,  under  a  voluntary  vow. 

"  Well,  it's  like  this,  Jacques,"  Belward  said  pres- 
ently, "  I  want  you,  and  I'm  not  going  to  say  that 
you'll  have  a  better  time  than  you  did  in  the  North, 
or  on  the  Slope ;  but  if  you'd  rather  be  with  me  than 
not,  you'll  find  that  I'll  interest  you.  There's  a  bond 
between  us,  anyway.  You're  half  French,  and  I'm 
one-fourth  French,  and  more.  You're  half  Indian, 
and  I'm  one-fourth  Indian — no  more.  That's  enough ! 


4  THE  TRESPASSER. 

So  far,  I  haven't  much  advantage.  But  I'm  one-half 
English— King's  English,  for  there's  been  an  offshoot 
of  royalty  in  our  family  somewhere,  and  there's  the 
royal  difference.  That's  where  I  get  my  brains — and 
manners." 

"  Where  did  you  get  the  other  ? "  asked  Jacques, 
shyly,  almost  furtively. 

"Money?" 

"  Not  money — the  other ! " 

Belward  spurred,  and  his  horse  sprang  away  vi- 
ciously. A  laugh  came  back  on  Jacques,  who  followed 
as  hard  as  he  could,  and  it  gave  him  a  feeling  of  awe. 
They  were  apart  for  a  long  time,  then  came  together 
again,  and  rode  for  miles  without  a  word.  At  last 
Belward,  glancing  at  a  sign-post  before  an  inn-door, 
exclaimed  at  the  legend — "  The  Whisk  o'  Barley," — 
and  drew  rein.  He  regarded  the  place  curiously  for  a 
minute.  The  landlord  came  out.  Belward  had  some 
beer  brought.  A  half-dozen  rustics  stood  gaping,  not 
far  away.  He  touched  his  horse  with  a  heel.  Saracen 
sprang  towards  them,  and  they  fell  back  alarmed. 
Belward  now  drank  his  beer  quietly,  and  asked  ques- 
tion after  question  of  the  landlord,  sometimes  waiting 
for  an  answer,  sometimes  not — a  kind  of  cross-exami- 
nation. Presently  he  dismounted. 

As  he  stood  questioning,  chiefly  about  Ridley 
Court  and  its  people,  a  coach  showed  on  the  hill, 
and  came  dashing  down  and  past.  He  lifted  his  eyes 


ONE  IN  SEARCH  OF  A  KINGDOM.  5 

idly,  though  never  before  had  he  seen  such  a  coach  as 
swings  away  from  Northumberland  Avenue  of  a  morn- 
ing. He  was  not  idle,  however ;  but  he  had  not  come 
to  England  to  show  surprise  at  anything.  As  the 
coach  passed  his  face  lifted  above  the  arm  on  the  neck 
of  the  horse,  keen,  dark,  strange.  A  man  on  the  box- 
seat,  attracted  at  first  by  the  uncommon  horses  and 
their  trappings,  caught  Belward's  eyes.  Not  he  alone, 
but  Belward  started  then.  Some  vague  intelligence 
moved  the  minds  of  both,  and  their  attention  was 
fixed  till  the  coach  rounded  a  corner  and  was  gone. 

The  landlord  was  at  Belward's  elbow. 

"  The  gentleman  on  the  box-seat  be  from  Kidley 
Court.  That's  Maister  Ian  Belward,  sir." 

Gaston  Belward's  eyes  half  closed,  and  a  sombre 
look  came,  giving  his  face  a  handsome  malice.  He 
wound  his  fingers  in  his  horse's  mane,  and  put  a  foot 
in  the  stirrup. 

"Who  is 'Maister  Ian'?" 

"Maister  Ian  be  Sir  William's  eldest,  sir.  On'y 
one  that's  left,  sir.  On'y  three  to  start  wi' :  and  one 
be  killed  i'  battle,  and  one  had  trouble  wi'  his  faither 
and  Maister  Ian ;  and  he  went  away  and  never  was 
heard  on  again,  sir.  That's  the  end  on  him" 

"  Oh,  that's  the  end  on  him,  eh,  landlord  ?  And 
how  long  ago  was  that  ?  " 

"  Becky,  lass,"  called  the  landlord  within  the  door, 
"  wheniver  was  it  Maister  Robert  turned  his  back  on 


6  THE  TRESPASSER. 

the  Court— iver  so  while  ago?  Eh,  a  fine  lad  that 
Maister  Robert  as  iver  I  see !  " 

Fat  laborious  Becky  hobbled  out,  holding  an  apple 
and  a  knife.  She  blinked  at  her  husband,  and  then  at 
the  strangers. 

"  What  be  askin'  o'  the  Court? "  she  said. 

Her  husband  repeated  the  question. 

She  gathered  her  apron  to  her  eyes  with  an  unctu- 
ous sob : 

"  Doan't  a'  know  when  Maister  Eobert  went !  He 
comes  i'  the  house  'ere  and  says :  '  Becky,  gie  us  a 
taste  o'  the  red-top — and  where  's  Jock  ? '  He  was  al- 
ways thinkin'  a  deal  o'  my  son  Jock.  '  Jock  be  gone,' 
I  says, '  and  I  knows  nowt  o'  his  comin'  back,' — mean- 
in',  I  was,  that  day.  *  Good  for  Jock ! '  says  he, '  and 
I'm  goin'  too,  Becky,  and  I  knows  nowt  o'  my  comin' 
back.'  'Where  be  goin',  Maister  Eobert?'  I  says. 
'  To  hell,  Becky,'  says  he,  and  he  laughs.  '  From  hell 
to  hell.  I'm  sick  to  my  teeth  o'  one,  I'll  try  t'other,' 
— a  way  like  that  speaks  he." 

Belward  was  impatient,  and  to  hurry  the  story  he 
made  as  if  to  start  on.  Becky,  seeing,  hastened. 

"  Dear  a'  dear !  The  red-top  were  afore  him,  and 
I  tryin'  to  make  what  be  come  to  him.  He  throws 
arm  'round  me,  smacks  me  on  the  cheek,  and  says  he : 
'  Tell  Jock  to  keep  the  mare,  Becky.'  Then  he  flings 
away,  and  never  more  comes  back  to  the  Court.  And 
that  day  one  year  my  Jock  smacks  me  on  the  cheek, 


ONE  IN  SEARCH  OF  A  KINGDOM.  7 

and  gets  on  the  mare ;  and  when  I  ask, '  Where  be  go- 
in'  ? '  he  says  :  *  For  a  hunt  i'  hell  wi'  Maister  Kobert, 
mither.'  And  from  that  day  come  back  he  never  did, 
nor  any  word.  There  was  trouble  wi'  the  lad — wi' 
him  and  Maister  Kobert  at  the  Court;  but  I  never 
knowed  nowt  o'  the  truth.  And  it's  seven-and-twen- 
ty  years  since  Maister  Eobert  went." 

Gaston  leaned  over  his  horse's  neck,  and  thrust  a 
piece  of  silver  into  the  woman's  hands. 

"  Take  that,  Becky  Lawson,  and  mop  your  eyes  no 
more." 

She  gaped. 

"  How  dost  know  my  name  was  Becky  Lawson  ?  I 
havena  been  ca'd  so  these  three-and-twenty  years — not 
since  a'  married  good  man  here,  and  put  Jock's  faith- 
er  in  's  grave  yander." 

"  The  devil  told  me,"  he  answered,  with  a  strange 
laugh,  and,  spurring,  they  were  quickly  out  of  sight. 

They  rode  for  a  couple  of  miles  without  speaking. 
Jacques  knew  his  master,  and  did  not  break  the  si- 
lence. Presently  they  came  over  a  hill,  and  down 
upon  a  little  bridge.  Belward  drew  rein,  and  looked 
up  the  valley.  About  two  miles  beyond  the  roofs  and 
turrets  of  the  Court  showed  above  the  trees.  A  whim- 
sical smile  came  to  his  lips. 

"  Brillon,"  he  said,  "  I'm  in  sight  of  home." 

The  half-breed  cocked  his  head.  It  was  the  first 
time  that  Belward  had  called  him  "  Brillon  " — he  had 


8  THE  TRESPASSER. 

ever  been  "  Jacques."  This  was  to  be  a  part  of  the 
new  life.  They  were  not  now  hunting  elk,  riding  to 
"  wipe  out  "  a  camp  of  Indians  or  navvies,  dining  the 
owner  of  a  ranche  or  a  deputation  from  a  prairie  con- 
stituency in  search  of  a  member,  nor  yet  with  a  sena- 
tor at  Washington,  who  served  tea  with  canvas-back 
duck  and  tooth-picks  with  dessert.  Once  before  had 
Jacques  seen  this  new  manner — when  Belward  visited 
Parliament  House  at  Ottawa,  and  was  presented  to 
some  notable  English  people,  visitors  to  Canada.  It 
had  come  to  these  notable  folk  that  Mr.  Gaston  Bel- 
ward  had  relations  at  Ridley  Court,  and  that  of  itself 
was  enough  to  command  courtesy.  But  presently, 
they  who  would  be  gracious  for  the  family's  sake, 
were  gracious  for  the  man's.  He  had  that  which, 
compelled  interest  —  a  suggestive,  personal,  distin- 
guished air.  Jacques  knew  his  master  better  than 
anyone  else  knew  him ;  and  yet  he  knew  little,  for 
Belward  was  of  those  who  seem  to  give  much  confi- 
dence, and  yet  give  little — never  more  than  he  wished. 

"  Yes,  monsieur,  in  sight  of  home,"  Jacques  re- 
plied, with  a  dry  cadence. 

"  Say  '  sir,'  not  *  monsieur,'  Brillon ;  and  from  the 
time  we  enter  the  Court  yonder,  look  every  day  and 
every  hour  as  you  did  when  the  judge  asked  you  who 
killed  Tom  Daly." 

Jacques  winced,  but  nodded  his  head. 

Belward  continued : 


ONE  IN  SEARCH  OF  A  KINGDOM.  9 

"  What  you  hear  me  tell  is  what  you  can  speak 
of ;  otherwise  you  are  blind  and  dumb.  You  under- 
stand?" 

Jacques'  face  was  sombre,  but  he  said  quickly : 

«  Yes— sir." 

He  straightened  himself  on  his  horse,  as  if  to  put 
himself  into  discipline  at  once — as  lead  to  the  back  of 
a  racer. 

Bel  ward  read  the  look.  He  drew  his  horse  close 
up.  Then  he  ran  an  arm  over  the  other's  shoulder. 

"  See  here,  Jacques.  This  is  a  game  that's  got  to 
be  played  up  to  the  hilt.  A  cat  has  nine  lives,  and 
most  men  have  two.  We  have.  Now  listen.  You 
never  knew  me  mess  things,  did  you?  Well,  I  play 
for  keeps  in  this;  no  monkeying.  I've  had  the  life 
of  Ur  of  the  Chaldees ;  now  for  Babylon.  I've  lodged 
with  the  barbarian ;  here  are  the  roofs  of  ivory.  I've 
had  my  day  with  my  mother's  people ;  voila !  for  my 
father's.  You  heard  what  Becky  Lawson  said.  My 
father  was  sick  of  it  at  twenty-five,  and  got  out.  We'll 
see  what  my  father's  son  will  do.  ...  I'm  going  to 
say  my  say  to  you,  and  have  done  with  it.  As  like  as 
not  there  isn't  another  man  that  I'd  have  brought 
with  me.  You're  all  right.  But  I'm  not  going  to 
rub  noses.  I  stick  when  I  do  stick,  but  I  know  what's 
got  to  be  done  here ;  and  I've  told  you.  You'll  not 
have  the  fun  out  of  it  that  I  will,  but  you  won't  have 
the  worry.  Now,  we  start  fresh.  I'm  to  be  obeyed ; 


10  THE  TRESPASSER. 

I'm  Napoleon.  I've  got  a  devil,  yet  it  needn't  hurt 
you,  and  it  won't.  But  if  I  make  enemies  here — and 
I'm  sure  to — let  them  look  out.  Give  me  your  hand, 
Jacques;  and  don't  you  forget  that  there  are  two 
Gaston  Belwards,  and  the  one  you  have  hunted  and 
lived  with  is  the  one  you  want  to  remember  when  you 
get  raw  with  the  new  one.  For  you'll  hear  no  more 
slang  like  this  from  me,  and  you'll  have  to  get  used  to 
lots  of  things." 

Without  waiting  reply,  Belward  urged  on  his 
horse,  and  at  last  paused  on  the  top  of  a  hill,  and 
waited  for  Jacques.  It  was  now  dusk,  and  the  land- 
scape showed  soft,  sleepy,  and  warm. 

"It's  all  of  a  piece,"  Belward  said  to  himself, 
glancing  from  the  trim  hedges,  the  small,  perfectly- 
tilled  fields  and  the  smooth  roads,  to  Kidley  Court 
itself,  where  many  lights  were  burning  and  gates 
opening  and  shutting.  There  was  some  affair  on  at 
the  Court,  and  he  smiled  to  think  of  his  own  appear- 
ance among  the  guests. 

"It's  a  pity  I  haven't  clothes  with  me,  Brillon; 
they  have  a  show  going  there." 

He  had  dropped  again  into  the  new  form  of  master 
and  man.  His  voice  was  cadenced,  gentlemanly. 

Jacques  pointed  to  his  own  saddle-bag. 

"  No,  no,  they  are  not  the  things  needed.  I  want 
the  evening-dress  which  cost  that  cool  hundred  dollars 
in  New  York." 


ONE  IN  SEARCH  OF  A  KINGDOM.  H 

Still  Jacques  was  silent.  He  did  not  know 
whether,  in  his  new  position,  he  was  expected  to  sug- 
gest. Belward  understood,  and  it  pleased  him. 

"  If  we  had  lost  the  track  of  a  buck  moose,  or  were 
nosing  a  cache  of  furs,  you'd  find  a  way,  Brillon." 

"  Voila  !  "  said  Jacques  ;  "  then,  why  not  wear  the 
buckskin  vest,  the  red-silk  sash,  and  the  boots  like 
these?" — tapping  his  own  patent-leathers.  "You 
look  a  grand  seigneur  so." 

"  But  I  am  here  to  look  an  English  gentleman,  not 
a  grand  seigneur,  nor  a  company's  trader  on  a  break. 
— Never  mind,  the  thing  will  wait  till  we  stand  in  my 
ancestral  halls,"  he  added,  with  a  dry  laugh. 

They  neared  the  Court.  The  village  church  was 
close  by  the  Court- wall.  It  drew  Belward's  attention. 
One  by  one  lights  were  springing  up  in  it.  It  was  a 
Friday  evening,  and  the  choir  were  come  to  practice. 
They  saw  buxom  village  girls  stroll  in,  followed  by  the 
organist,  one  or  two  young  men  and  a  handful  of 
boys.  Presently  the  horsemen  were  seen,  and  a  star- 
ing group  gathered  at  the  church-door.  An  idea  came 
to  Belward. 

"  Kings  used  to  make  pilgrimages  before  they  took 
their  crowns,  why  shouldn't  I  ?  "  he  said  half -jestingly. 

Most  men  placed  similarly  would  have  been  so  en- 
gaged with  the  main  event  that  they  had  never  thought 
of  this  other.  But  Belward  was  not  excited.  He  was 
moving  deliberately,  prepared  for  every  situation.  He 


12  THE  TRESPASSER. 

had  a  great  game  in  hand,  and  he  had  no  fear  of  his 
ability  to  play  it.  He  suddenly  stopped  his  horse,  and 
threw  the  bridle  to  Jacques,  saying  : 

"  I'll  be  back  directly,  Brillon." 

He  entered  the  churchyard,  and  passed  to  the  door. 
As  he  came  the  group  under  the  crumbling  arch  fell 
back,  and  at  the  call  of  the  organist  went  to  the  chan- 
cel. Belward  came  slowly  up  the  aisle,  and  paused 
about  the  middle.  Something  in  the  scene  gave  him 
a  new  sensation.  The  church  was  old,  dilapidated; 
but  the  timbered  roof,  the  Norman  and  Early  English 
arches  incongruously  side  by  side,  with  patches  of  an- 
cient distemper  and  paintings,  and,  more  than  all,  the 
marble  figures  on  the  tombs,  with  hands  folded  so 
foolishly, — yet  impressively  too, — brought  him  up  with 
a  quick  throb  of  the  heart.  It  was  his  first  real  con- 
tact with  England  ;  for  he  had  not  seen  London,  save 
at  Euston  Station  and  in  the  north-west  district.  But 
here  he  was  in  touch  with  his  heritage.  He  rested 
his  hand  upon  a  tomb  beside  him,  and  looked  around 
slowly. 

The  choir  began  the  psalm  for  the  following  Sun- 
day. At  first  he  did  not  listen ;  but  presently  the 
organist  was  heard  alone,  and  then  the  choir  afterwards 
sang: 

"  Woe  is  me,  that  I  am  constrained  to  dwell  with  Mesech : 
And  to  have  my  habitation  among  the  tents  of  Kedar." 


ONE  IN  SEARCH  OF  A  KINGDOM.  13 

Simple,  dusty,  ancient  church,  thick  with  effigies  and 
tombs;  with  inscriptions  upon  pillars  to  virgins  de- 
parted this  life;  and  tablets  telling  of  gentlemen 
gone  from  great  parochial  virtues  :  it  wakened  in  Bel- 
ward's  brain  a  fresh  conception  of  the  life  he  was 
about  to  live  —  he  did  not  doubt  that  he  would  live  it. 
He  would  not  think  of  himself  as  inacceptable  to  old 
Sir  William  Belward.  He  glanced  to  the  tomb  under 
his  hand.  There  was  enough  daylight  yet  to  see  the 
inscription  on  the  marble.  Besides,  a  single  candle 
was  burning  just  over  his  head.  He  stooped  and 
read: 


to  t{re 
OF 

SIR  GASTON  ROBERT  BELWARD,  BART., 

OF   RIDLEY   COURT,   IN   THIS   PARISH   OF   GASTONBURY, 

WHO, 

AT   THE   AGE   OF   ONE   AND   FIFTY   YEARS, 
AFTER  A   LIFE   OF   DISTINGUISHED    SERVICE    FOR   HIS   KING 

AND    COUNTRY, 
AND   GRAVE   AND   CONSTANT   CARE   OF   THOSE   EXALTED   WORKS 

WHICH  BECOME   A   GENTLEMAN   OF   ENGLAND; 
MOST   NOTABLE   FOR   HIS   LOVE   OF    ARTS   AND   LETTERS  ; 

SENSIBLE   IN   ALL   GRACES   AND   ACCOMPLISHMENTS; 
GIFTED     WITH     SINGULAR    VIRTUES     AND     INTELLECTS; 

AND 
DELIGHTING  AS  MUCH  IN  THE  JOYS  OF  PEACE 

AS   IN   THE   HEAVY   DUTIES   OF   WAR  : 
WAS     SLAIN    BY     THE     SIDE    OF     HIS     ROYAL     HIGHNESS, 


THE   BELOVED   AND   ILLUSTRIOUS   PRINCE   RUPERT 

AT   THE   BATTLE   OF   NASEBY, 
IN  THE   YEAR   OF   OUR   LORD   MDCXLV. 

"A  Sojourner  as  all  my  Fathers  were." 


14  THE  TRESPASSER. 

"  «  Gaston  Eobert  Belward ' ! " 

He  read  the  name  over  and  over,  his  fingers  trac- 
ing the  letters. 

His  first  glance  at  the  recumbent  figure  had  been 
hasty.  Now,  however,  he  leaned  over  and  examined 
it.  It  lay,  hands  folded,  in  the  dress  of  Prince  Ru- 
pert's  cavaliers,  a  sword  at  side,  and  great  spurs  laid 
beside  the  heels. 

" '  Gaston  Kobert  Belward ' ! " 

As  this  other  Gaston  Eobert  Belward  looked  at 
the  image  of  his  dead  ancestor,  a  wild  thought  came : 
Had  he  himself  not  fought  with  Prince  Rupert  ?  Was 
he  not  looking  at  himself  in  stone  ?  Was  he  not  here 
to  show  England  how  a  knight  of  Charles'  time  would 
look  upon  the  life  of  the  Victorian  age  ?  Would  not 
this  still  cold  Gaston  be  as  strange  at  Ridley  Court  as 
himself  fresh  from  tightening  a  cinch  on  the  belly  of 
a  broncho  ?  Would  he  not  ride  from  where  he  had 
been  sojourning  as  much  a  stranger  in  his  England 
as  himself  ? 

For  a  moment  the  idea  possessed  him.  He  was 
Sir  Gaston  Robert  Belward,  Baronet.  He  remem- 
bered now  how,  at  Prince  Rupert's  side,  he  had  sped 
on  after  Ireton's  horse,  cutting  down  Roundheads  as 
he  passed,  on  and  on,  mad  with  conquest,  yet  wonder- 
ing that  Rupert  kept  so  long  in  pursuit  while  Charles 
was  in  danger  with  Cromwell :  how,  as  the  word  came 
to  wheel  back,  a  shot  tore  away  the  pommel  of  his 


ONE  IN  SEARCH  OF  A  KINGDOM.  15 

saddle ;  then  another,  and  another,  and  with  a  sharp 
twinge  in  his  neck  he  fell  from  his  horse.  He  re- 
membered how  he  raised  himself  on  his  arm  and 
shouted  "  God  save  the  King ! "  How  he  loosed  his 
scarf  and  staunched  the  blood  at  his  neck,  then  fell 
back  into  a  whirring  silence,  from  which  he  was 
roused  by  feeling  himself  in  strong  arms,  and  hearing 
a  voice  say,  "  Courage,  Gaston."  Then  came  the  dis- 
tant, very  distant,  thud  of  hoofs,  and  he  fell  asleep ; 
and  memory  was  done  ! 

He  stood  for  a  moment  oblivious  to  everything : 
the  evening  bird  fluttering  among  the  rafters,  the 
song  of  the  nightingale  without,  the  sighing  wind  in 
the  tower  entry,  the  rustics  in  the  doorway,  the  group 
in  the  choir. 

Presently  he  became  conscious  of  the  words  sung  : 

"  A  thousand  ages  in  Thy  sight 

Are  like  an  evening  gone ; 
Short  as  the  watch  that  ends  the  night 
Before  the  rising  sun. 

"  Time,  like  an  ever-rolling  stream, 

Bears  all  its  sons  away ; 
They  fly,  forgotten,  as  a  dream 
Dies  at  the  opening  day." 

He  was  himself  again  in  an  instant.  He  had  been 
in  a  kind  of  dream.  It  seemed  a  long  time  since  he 
had  entered  the  church — in  reality  but  a  few  mo- 
ments. He  caught  his  moustache  in  his  fingers,  and 
turned  on  his  heel  with  a  musing  smile.  His  spurs 


16  THE  TRESPASSER. 

clinked  as  he  went  down  the  aisle ;  and,  involuntarily, 
he  tapped  a  boot-leg  with  his  riding- whip.  The  sing- 
ing ceased.  His  spurs  made  the  only  sound.  The 
rustics  at  the  door  fell  back  before  him.  He  had  to 
go  up  three  steps  to  reach  the  threshold.  As  he  stood 
on  the  top  one  he  paused  and  turned  round. 

So,  this  was  home  :  this  church  more  so  even  than 
the  Court  hard  by.  Here  his  ancestors — for  how  long 
he  did  not  know,  probably  since  the  time  of  Edward 
III. — idled  time  away  in  the  dust ;  here  Gaston  Bel- 
ward  had  been  sleeping  in  effigy  since  Naseby  Field. 
A  romantic  light  came  into  his  face.  Again,  why 
not  ?  Even  in  the  Hudson's  Bay  country  and  in  the 
Rocky  Mountains,  he  had  been  called,  "Tivi:  The 
Man  of  the  Other."  He  had  been  counted  the  great- 
est of  Medicine  Men — one  of  the  'Race  :  the  people  of 
the  Pole,  who  lived  in  a  pleasant  land,  gifted  as  none 
others  of  the  race  of  men.  Not  an  hour  before 
Jacques  had  asked  him  where  he  got  "  the  other." 
No  man  can  live  in  the  North  for  any  time  without 
getting  the  strain  of  its  mystery  and  romance  in  him. 
Gaston  waved  his  hand  to  the  tomb,  and  said  half- 
believingly : 

"  Gaston  Eobert  Belward,  come  again  to  your 
kingdom ! " 

He  turned  to  go  out,  and  faced  the  rector  of  the 
parish, — a  bent,  benign-looking  man, — who  gazed  at 
him  astonished.  He  had  heard  the  strange  speech. 


ONE  IN  SEARCH  OF  A  KINGDOM.     17 

His  grave  eyes  rested  on  the  stalwart  stranger  with 
courteous  inquiry.  Gaston  knew  who  it  was.  Over 
his  left  brow  there  was  a  scar.  He  had  heard  of  that 
scar  before.  When  the  venerable  Archdeacon  Varcoe 
was  tutor  to  Ian  and  Robert  Belward,  Ian,  in  a  fit  of 
anger,  had  thrown  a  stick  at  his  brother.  It  had 
struck  the  clergyman,  leaving  a  scar. 

Gaston  now  raised  his  hat.  As  he  passed,  the 
rector  looked  after  him,  puzzled;  the  words  he  had 
heard  addressed  to  the  effigy  returning.  His  eyes 
followed  the  young  man  to  the  gate,  and  presently, 
with  a  quick  lifting  of  the  shoulders,  he  said  : 

"  Robert  Belward  !  "  Then  added  :  "  Impossible  ! 
But  he  is  a  Belward  ! " 

He  saw  Gaston  mount,  then  entered  and  went 
slowly  up  the  aisle.  He  paused  beside  the  tomb  of 
that  other  Belward.  His  wrinkled  hand  rested  on  it. 

"That  is  it,"  he  said  at  last.  "He  is  like  the 
picture  of  this  Sir  Gaston.  Strange  !  " 

He  sighed,  and  unconsciously  touched  the  scar  on 
his  brow.  His  dealings  with  the  Belwards  had  not 
been  all  joy.  Begun  with  youthful  pride  and  affec- 
tionate interest,  they  had  gone  on  into  vexation,  sor- 
row, failure,  and  shame.  While  Gaston  was  riding 
into  his  kingdom,  Lionel  Henry  Varcoe  was  thinking 
how  poor  his  life  had  been  where  he  had  meant  it 
to  be  useful. 

As  he  stood  musing  and  listening  to  the  music  of 


18  THE  TRESPASSER. 

the  choir,  a  girl  came  softly  up  the  aisle,  and  touched 
him  on  the  arm. 

"  Grandfather,  dear,"  she  said,  "  aren't  you  going 
to  the  Court  ?  You  have  not  been  there  to  dine  for 
so  long ! " 

He  fondled  the  hand  on  his  arm. 

"  My  dearest,  they  have  not  asked  me  for  a  long 
time." 

"  But  why  not  to-night  ?  I  have  laid  out  every- 
thing nicely  for  you  :  your  new  gaiters,  and  your 
D.  C.  L.  coat  with  the  pretty  buttons  and  cord." 

"  How  can  I  leave  you,  my  dear  ?  And  they  do 
not  ask  you  ! " 

The  voice  tried  for  playfulness,  but  the  eyes  had  a 
disturbed  look. 

"  Me  ?  Oh  !  they  never  ask  me  to  dinner — you 
know  that.  Tea  and  formal  visits  are  enough  for 
Lady  Belward,  and  almost  too  much  for  me.  There 
is  yet  time  to  dress.  Oh !  say  you  will  go.  I  want 
you  to  be  friendly  with  them." 

The  old  man  shook  his  head. 

"  I  do  not  care  to  leave  you,  my  dearest." 

"  Foolish  old  fatherkins !  Who  would  carry  me 
off  ? — '  Nobody,  no,  not  I,  nobody  cares  for  me.' >: 

Suddenly  a  new  look  shot  up  in  her  face. 

"Did  you  see  that  singular  handsome  man  who 
came  from  the  church — like  someone  out  of  an  old 
painting?  Not  that  his  dress  was  so  strange;  but 


ONE  IN  SEARCH  OF  A  KINGDOM.  19 

there  was  something  in  his  face — something  that  you 
would  expect  to  find  in — in  a  Garibaldi.  Silly,  am  I 
not  ?  Did  you  see  him  ?  " 

He  looked  at  her  gravely. 

"  My  dear,"  he  said  at  last,  "  I  think  I  will  go 
after  all,  though  I  shall  be  a  little  late." 

"  A  sensible  grandfather  !     Come  quickly,  dear." 

He  paused  again. 

"  But  I  fear  I  sent  a  note  declining." 

"  Ah,  no,  you  did  not.  It  has  been  lying  on  your 
table  for  two  days." 

"  Dear  me— dear  me  !    I  am  getting  very  old ! " 

They  passed  out  of  the  church.  Presently,  as  they 
hurried  to  the  rectory  near  by,  the  girl  said  : 

"But  you  haven't  answered.  Did  you  see  the 
stranger?  Do  you  know  who  he  is ?  " 

The  rector  turned,  and  pointed  to  the  gate  of  Rid- 
ley Court.  Gaston  and  Brillon  were  just  entering. 

"  Alice,  dear,"  he  said,  in  a  vague,  half -troubled 
way,  "  the  man  is  a  Belward,  I  think." 

"  Why,  of  course  !  "  the  girl  replied  with  a  flash  of 
excitement.  "  But  so  dark,  strange,  and  foreign-look- 
ing !  What  Belward  is  he  ?  " 

"  I  do  not  know  yet,  my  dear." 

"  I  shall  be  up  when  you  come  back.  But  mind, 
don't  leave  just  after  dinner.  Stay  and  talk;  you 
must  tell  me  everything  that's  said  and  done — and 
about  the  stranger ! " 


CHAPTER  II. 

IN   WHICH   HE   CLAIMS   HIS  OWN. 

MEANWHILE,  without  a  word,  Gaston  had  mounted, 
ridden  to  the  castle,  and  passed  through  the  open  gates 
into  the  courtyard.  Inside  he  paused.  In  the  main 
building  many  lights  were  burning.  There  came  a 
rattle  of  wheels  behind  him,  and  he  shifted  to  let  a 
carriage  pass.  Through  the  window  of  the  brougham 
he  could  see  the  shimmer  of  satin,  lace,  and  soft  white 
fur,  and  he  had  an  instant's  glance  of  a  pretty  face. 

The  carriage  drew  up  to  the  steps,  and  presently 
three  ladies  and  a  brusque  gentleman  passed  into  the 
hall-way,  admitted  by  powdered  footmen.  The  in- 
cident had  a  manner,  an  air,  which  struck  Gaston,  he 
knew  not  why.  Perhaps  it  was  the  easy  finesse  of 
ceremonial.  He  looked  at  Brillon.  He  had  seen  him 
sit  arms  folded  like  that,  looking  from  the  top  of  a 
bluff  down  on  an  Indian  village  or  a  herd  of  buffa- 
loes. There  was  wonder,  but  no  shyness  or  agitation, 
on  his  face ;  rather  the  naive,  naked  look  of  a  child. 
Belward  laughed. 

"  Come,  Brillon ;  we  are  at  home." 


IN  WHICH  HE  CLAIMS  HIS  OWN.  21 

He  rode  up  to  the  steps,  Jacques  following.  A 
footman  appeared  and  stared.  Gaston  looked  down 
on  him  neutrally,  and  dismounted.  Jacques  did  the 
same.  The  footman  still  stared.  Another  appeared 
behind.  Gaston  eyed  the  puzzled  servant  calmly. 

"  Why  don't  you  call  a  groom  ?  "  he  presently  said. 
There  was  a  cold  gleam  in  his  eye. 

The  footman  shrank. 

"  Oh,  yessir,  yessir,"  he  said  confusedly,  and  sig- 
nalled. 

The  other  footman  came  down,  and  made  as  if  to 
take  the  bridle.  Gaston  waved  him  back.  None  too 
soon,  for  the  horse  lunged  at  him. 

"  A  rub  down,  a  pint  of  beer,  and  water  and  feed 
in  an  hour,  and  I'll  come  to  see  him  myself  late  to- 
night." 

Jacques  had  loosened  the  saddle-bags  and  taken 
them  off.  Gaston  spoke  to  the  horse,  patted  his 
neck,  and  gave  him  to  the  groom.  Then  he  went 
up  the  steps,  followed  by  Jacques.  He  turned  at 
the  door  to  see  the  groom  leading  both  horses  off, 
eyeing  Saracen  suspiciously.  He  laughed  noise- 
lessly. 

"  Saracen  '11  teach  him  things,"  he  said.  "  I  might 
warn  him,  but  it's  best  for  the  horses  to  make  their 
own  impressions." 

"  What  name,  sir  ?  "  said  a  footman. 

"You  are ?" 


22  THE  TRESPASSER. 

"  Falby,  sir." 

"  Falby,  look  after  my  man  Brillon  here,  and  take 
me  to  Sir  William." 

"What  name,  sir?" 

Gaston,  as  if  with  sudden  thought,  stepped  into 
the  light  of  the  candles,  and  said  in  a  low  voice : 

"  Falhy,  don't  you  know  me  ?  " 

The  footman  turned  a  little  pale,  as  his  eyes,  in 
spite  of  themselves,  clung  to  Gaston's.  A  kind  of 
fright  came,  and  then  they  steadied. 

"  Oh  yes,  sir,"  he  said  mechanically. 

"  Where  have  you  seen  me  ?  " 

"  In  the  picture  on  the  wall,  sir." 

"  Whose  picture,  Falby? " 

"  Sir  Gaston  Bel  ward,  sir." 

A  smile  lurked  at  the  corners  of  Gaston's  mouth. 

"  Gaston  Belward.  Very  well,  then  you  know 
what  to  say  to  Sir  William.  Show  me  into  the 
library." 

"  Or  the  justices'  room,  sir  ?  " 

"The  justices'  room  will  do." 

Gaston  wondered  what  the  justices'  room  was. 
A  moment  after  he  stood  in  it,  and  the  dazed  Falby 
had  gone,  trying  vainly  to  reconcile  the  picture  on 
the  wall,  which,  now  that  he  could  think,  he  knew 
was  very  old,  with  this  strange  man  who  had  sent  a 
curious  cold  shiver  through  him.  But,  anyhow,  he 
was  a  Belward,  that  was  certain :  voice,  face,  manner 


IN  WHICH  HE  CLAIMS  HIS  OWN.  23 

showed  it.     But  with  something  like  no  Belward  he 
had  ever  seen. 

Left  to  himself,  Gaston  looked  round  on  a  large, 
severe  room.  Its  use  dawned  on  him.  This  was  part 
of  the  life :  Sir  William  was  a  Justice  of  the  Peace. 
But  why  had  he  been  brought  here  ?  Why  not  to  the 
library,  as  himself  had  suggested?  There  would  be 
some  awkward  hours  for  Falby  in  the  future.  Gaston 
had  as  winning  a  smile,  as  sweet  a  manner,  as  anyone 
in  the  world,  so  long  as  a  straight  game  was  on ;  but 
to  cross  his  will  with  the  other ! — he  had  been  too 
long  a  power  in  that  wild  country  where  his  father 
had  also  been  a  power !  He  did  not  quite  know  how 
long  he  waited,  for  he  was  busy  with  plans  as  to  his 
career  at  Ridley  Court.  He  was  roused  at  last  by 
Falby's  entrance.  A  keen,  cold  look  shot  from  under 
his  straight  brows. 

"Well?"  he  said. 

"  Will  you  step  into  the  library,  sir  ?  Sir  William 
will  see  you  there." 

Falby  tried  to  avoid  his  look,  but  his  eyes  were 
compelled,  and  Gaston  said : 

"Falby,   you    will    always    hate    to    enter    this 
room." 
Falby  was  agitated. 

"  I  hope  not,  sir." 

"  But  you  will,  Falby,  unless " 

"Yessir?" 


24  THE  TRESPASSER. 

"Unless  you  are  both  the  serpent  and  the  dove 
Falby." 

"  Yessir." 

As  they  entered  the  hall,  Brillon  with  the  saddle- 
bags was  being  taken  in  charge,  and  Gaston  saw  what 
a  strange  figure  he  looked  beside  the  other  servants 
and  in  these  fine  surroundings.  He  could  not  think 
that  himself  was  so  bizarre.  Nor  was  he.  But  he 
looked  unusual;  as  one  of  high  civilisation  might, 
through  long  absence  in  primitive  countries,  return  in 
uncommon  clothing,  and  with  a  manner  of  distin- 
guished strangeness:  the  barbaric  to  protect  the  re- 
fined, as  one  has  seen  a  bush  of  firs  set  to  shelter  a 
wheat-field  from  a  sea- wind,  or  a  windmill  water  cun- 
ningly-begotten flowers. 

As  he  went  through  the  hall  other  visitors  were 
entering.  They  passed  him,  making  for  the  staircase. 
Ladies  with  the  grand  air  looked  at  him  curiously, 
and  two  girls  glanced  shyly  from  the  jingling  spurs 
and  tasselled  boots  to  his  rare  face. 

One  of  the  ladies  suddenly  gave  a  little  gasping 
cry,  and  catching  the  arm  of  her  companion,  said : 

"  Keine  !  how  like  Kobert  Belward  !  Who — who 
is  he?" 

The  other  coolly  put  up  her  pince-nez.  She 
caught  Gaston's  profile  and  the  turn  of  his  shoulder. 

"  Yes,  like,  Sophie ;  but  Eobert  never  had  such  a 
back,  nor  anything  like  the  face." 


IN  WHICH  HE  CLAIMS  HIS  OWN.  25 

She  spoke  with  no  attempt  to  modulate  her  voice, 
and  it  carried  distinctly  to  Gaston.  He  turned  and 
glanced  at  them. 

"He's  a  Belward,  certainly,  but  like  what  one  I 
don't  know;  and  terribly  eccentric,  my  dear!  Did 
you  see  the  boots  and  the  sash  ?  Why,  bless  me,  if 
you  are  not  shaking !  Don't  be  silly — shivering  at  the 
thought  of  Robert  Belward  after  all  these  years ! " 

So  saying,  Mrs.  Warren  Gasgoyne  tapped  Lady 
Dargan  on  the  arm,  and  then  turned  sharply  to  see  if 
her  daughters  had  been  listening.  She  saw  that  they 
had;  and  though  herself  and  not  her  sister  was  to 
blame,  she  said : 

"Sophie,  you  are  very  indiscreet!  If  you  had 
daughters  of  your  own,  you  would  probably  be  more 
careful — though  Heaven  only  knows,  for  you  were 
always  difficult ! " 

With  this  they  vanished  up  the  staircase,  Mrs. 
Gasgoyne's  daughters,  Delia  and  Agatha,  smiling  at 
each  other  and  whispering  of  Gaston. 

Meanwhile  the  seeker  after  a  kingdom  was  shown 
into  Sir  William  Belward's  study.  No  one  was  there. 
He  walked  to  the  mantelpiece,  and,  leaning  his  arm 
on  it,  looked  round.  Directly  in  front  of  him  on  the 
wall  was  the  picture  of  a  lady  in  middle-life,  sitting 
in  an  arbour.  A  crutch  lay  against  one  arm  of  her 
chair,  and  her  left  hand  leaned  on  an  ebony  silver- 
topped  cane.  There  was  something  painful,  haunt- 
3 


26  THE  TRESPASSER. 

ing,  in  the  face — a  weirdness  in  the  whole  picture. 
The  face  was  looking  into  the  sunlight,  but  the  effect 
was  rather  of  moonlight — distant,  mournful.  He  was 
fascinated ;  why,  he  could  not  tell.  Art  to  him  was 
an  unknown  book,  but  he  had  the  instinct,  and  he 
was  quick  to  feel.  This  picture  struck  him  as  being 
out  of  harmony  with  everything  else  in  the  room. 
Yet  it  had  a  strange  compelling  charm. 

Presently  he  started  forward  with  an  exclamation. 
Now  he  understood  the  vague,  eerie  influence.  Look- 
ing out  from  behind  the  foliage  was  a  face,  so  dim 
that  one  moment  it  seemed  not  to  be  there,  and  then 
suddenly  to  flash  in — as  a  picture  from  Beyond  sails, 
lightning-like,  across  the  filmy  eyes  of  the  dying.  It 
was  the  face  of  a  youth,  elf -like,  unreal,  yet  he  saw 
his  father's  features  in  it. 

He  rubbed  his  eyes  and  looked  again.  It  seemed 
very  dim.  Indeed,  so  delicately,  vaguely,  had  the 
work  been  done  that  only  eyes  like  Gaston's,  trained 
to  observe,  with  the  sight  of  a  hawk  and  a  sense  of  the 
mysterious,  could  have  seen  so  quickly  or  so  distinctly. 
He  drew  slowly  back  to  the  mantel  again,  and  mused. 
What  did  it  mean?  He  was  sure  that  the  woman 
was  his  grandmother. 

At  that  moment  the  door  opened,  and  an  alert, 
white-haired  man  stepped  in  quickly,  and  stopped  in 
the  centre  of  the  room,  looking  at  his  visitor.  His 
deep,  keen  eyes  gazed  out  with  an  intensity  that 


IN  WHICH  HE  CLAIMS  HIS  OWN.  27 

might  almost  be  fierceness,  and  the  fingers  of  his  fine 
hands  opened  and  shut  nervously.  Though  of  no 
great  stature,  he  had  singular  dignity.  He  was  in 
evening-dress,  and  as  he  raised  a  hand  to  his  chin 
quickly,  as  if  in  surprise  or  perplexity,  Gaston  noticed 
that  he  wore  a  large  seal-ring.  It  is  singular  that 
while  he  was  engaged  with  his  great  event,  he  was 
also  thinking  what  an  air  of  authority  the  ring 
gave. 

For  a  moment  the  two  men  stood  at  gaze  without 
speaking,  though  Gaston  stepped  forward  respect- 
fully. A  bewildered,  almost  shrinking  look  came  into 
Sir  William's  eyes,  as  the  other  stood  full  in  the  light 
of  the  candles. 

Presently  the  old  man  spoke.  In  spite  of  conven- 
tional smoothness,  his  voice  had  the  ring  of  distance, 
which  comes  from  having  lived  through  and  above 
painful  things. 

"  My  servant  announced  you  as  Sir  Gaston  Bel- 
ward.  There  is  some  mistake  ?  " 

"  There  is  a  mistake,"  was  the  slow  reply.  "  I  did 
not  give  my  name  as  Sir  Gaston  Belward.  That  was 
Falby's  conclusion,  sir.  But  I  am  Gaston  Eobert  Bel- 
ward,  just  the  same." 

Sir  William  was  dazed,  puzzled.  He  presently 
made  a  quick  gesture,  as  if  driving  away  some  foolish 
thought,  and,  motioning  to  a  chair,  said  : 

"  Will  you  be  seated  ?  " 


28  THE  TRESPASSER. 

They  both,  sat,  Sir  William  by  his  writing-table. 
His  look  was  now  steady  and  penetrating,  but  he  met 
one  just  as  firm. 

"  You  are— Gaston  Eobert  Belward  ?  May  I  ask 
for  further  information  ?  " 

There  was  furtive  humour  playing  at  Gaston's 
mouth.  The  old  man's  manner  had  been  so  unlike 
anything  he  had  ever  met,  save,  to  an  extent,  in  his 
father,  that  it  interested  him.  He  replied,  with  keen 
distinctness : 

"  You  mean,  why  I  have  come — home  ?  " 

Sir  William's  fingers  trembled  on  a  paper-knife. 

"  Are  you — at  home  ?  " 

"  I  have  come  home  to  ask  for  my  heritage — with 
interest  compounded,  sir." 

Sir  William  was  now  very  pale.  He  got  to  his 
feet,  came,  to  the  young  man,  peered  into  his  face, 
then  drew  back  to  the  table  and  steadied  himself 
against  it.  Gaston  rose  also  :  his  instinct  of  courtesy 
was  acute — absurdly  civilised — that  is,  primitive.  He 
waited. 

"  You  are  Robert's  son?" 

"  Eobert  Belward  was  my  father." 

"Your  father  is  dead?" 

"  Twelve  years  ago." 

Sir  William  sank  back  in  his  chair.  His  thin  fin- 
gers ran  back  and  forth  along  his  lips.  Presently  he 
took  out  his  handkerchief  and  coughed  into  it  nerv- 


IN  WHICH  HE  CLAIMS  HIS  OWN.  29 

ously.  His  lips  trembled.  With  a  preoccupied  air  he 
arranged  a  handful  of  papers  on  the  table. 

"  Why  did  you  not  come  before  ?  "  he  said  at  last, 
in  a  low,  mechanical  voice. 

"  It  was  better  for  a  man  than  a  boy  to  come." 

"May  I  ask  why?" 

"  A  boy  doesn't  always  see  a  situation — gives  up 
too  soon — throws  away  his  rights.  My  father  was  a 
boy ! " 

"  He  was  twenty-five  when  he  went  away." 

« I  am  fifty !  " 

Sir  William  looked  up  sharply,  perplexed. 

"Fifty?" 

"  He  only  knew  this  life :  I  know  the  world ! " 

"  What  world  ?  " 

"The  great  North,  the  South,  the  seas  at  four 
corners  of  the  earth." 

Sir  William  glanced  at  the  top-boots,  the  peeping 
sash,  the  strong,  bronzed  face. 

"  Who  was  your  mother?  "  he  asked  abruptly. 

"  A  woman  of  France." 

The  baronet  made  a  gesture  of  impatience,  and 
looked  searchingly  at  the  young  man. 

All  at  once  Gaston  shot  his  bolt,  to  have  it  over. 

"  She  had  Indian  blood  also." 

He  stretched  himself  to  his  full  height,  easily, 
broadly,  with  a  touch  of  defiance,  and  leaned  an  arm 
against  the  mantel,  awaiting  Sir  William's  reply. 


30  THE  TRESPASSER. 

The  old  man  shrank,  then  said  coldly : 

"  Have  you  the  marriage-certificate  ?  " 

Gaston  drew  some  papers  from  his  pockets. 

"  Here,  sir,  with  a  letter  from  my  father,  and  one 
from  the  Hudson's  Bay  Company." 

His  grandfather  took  them.  With  an  effort  he 
steadied  himself,  then  opened  and  read  them  one  by 
one,  his  son's  brief  letter  last — it  was  merely  a  calm 
farewell,  with  a  request  that  justice  should  be  done 
his  son. 

At  that  moment  Falby  entered  and  said : 

"  Her  ladyship's  compliments,  and  all  the  guests 
have  arrived,  sir." 

"  My  compliments  to  her  ladyship,  and  ask  her  to 
give  me  five  minutes  yet,  Falby." 

Turning  to  his  grandson,  there  seemed  to  be 
a  moment's  hesitation,  then  he  reached  out  his 
hand. 

"  You  have  brought  your  luggage  ? — Will  you  care 
to  dine  with  us  ?  " 

Gaston  took  the  cold  outstretched  fingers. 

"  Only  my  saddle-bag,  and  I  have  no  evening-dress 
with  me,  else  I  should  be  glad." 

There  was  another  glance  up  and  down  the  ath- 
letic figure,  a  half -apprehensive  smile  as  the  baronet 
thought  of  his  wife,  and  then  he  said : 

"  We  must  see  if  anything  can  be  done." 

He  pulled  a  bell-cord.     A  servant  appeared. 


IN  WHICH  HE  CLAIMS  HIS  OWN.  31 

"Ask  the  housekeeper  to  come  for  a  moment, 
please." 

Neither  spoke  till  the  housekeeper  appeared. 

"  Hovey,"  he  said  to  the  grim  woman,  "  give  Mr. 
Gaston  the  room  in  the  north  tower.  Then,  from  the 
press  in  the  same  room  lay  out  the  evening-dress  which 
you  will  find  there.  .  .  .  They  were  your  father's,"  he 
added,  turning  to  the  young  man.  "  It  was  my  wife's 
wish  to  keep  them.  Have  they  been  aired  lately, 
Hovey?" 

"  Some  days  ago,  sir." 

"That  will  do."  The  housekeeper  left,  agitated. 
"  You  will  probably  be  in  time  for  the  fish,"  he  added, 
as  he  bowed  to  Eobert. 

"  If  the  clothes  do  not  fit,  sir  ?  " 

"  Your  father  was  about  your  height  and  nearly  as 
large,  and  fashions  have  not  changed  much ! " 

A  few  moments  afterwards  Gaston  was  in  the 
room  which  his  father  had  occupied  twenty  -  seven 
years  before.  The  taciturn  housekeeper,  eying 
him  excitedly  the  while,  put  out  the  clothes.  He 
did  not  say  anything  till  she  was  about  to  go. 
Then: 

"  Hovey,  were  you  here  in  my  father's  time  ?  " 

"  I  was  under-parlourmaid,  sir,"  she  said. 

"  And  you  are  housekeeper  now — good  !  " 

The  face  of  the  woman  crimsoned,  hiding  her  dour 
wrinkles.  She  turned  away  her  head. 


32  THE  TRESPASSER. 

"  I'd  have  given  my  right  hand  if  he  hadn't  gone, 
sir." 

Gaston  whistled  softly,  then : 

"  So  would  he,  I  fancy,  before  he  died.  But  I 
shall  not  go,  so  you  will  not  need  to  risk  a  finger  for 
me.  I  am  going  to  stay,  Hovey.  Good-night.  Look 
after  Brillon,  please." 

He  held  out  his,  hand.  Her  fingers  twitched  in 
his,  then  grasped  them  nervously. 

"  Yes,  sir.  Good-night,  sir.  It's — it's  like  him 
comin'  back,  sir." 

Then  she  suddenly  turned  and  hurried  from  tl^e 
room,  a  blunt  figure  to  whom  emotion  was  not 
graceful. 

"  H'm  !  "  said  Gaston,  as  he  shut  the  door.  "  Par- 
lourmaid then,  eh  ?  History  at  every  turn  !  Void  le 
sabre  de  mon  pere  !  " 


CHAPTER  III. 

HE   TELLS  THE   STORY   OF  HIS   LIFE. 

GASTON  BELWARD  was  not  sentimental :  that  be- 
longs to  the  middle-class  Englishman's  ideal  of  civili- 
sation. But  he  had  a  civilisation  akin  to  the  highest ; 
incongruous,  therefore,  to  the  general  as  the  sympa- 
thy between  the  United  States  and  Russia.  The  high- 
est civilisation  can  be  independent.  The  English  aris- 
tocrat is  at  home  in  the  lodge  of  a  Sioux  chief  or  the 
bamboo-hut  of  a  Fijian,  and  makes  brothers  of  "  sav- 
ages," when  those  other  formal  folk,  who  spend  their 
lives  in  keeping  their  dignity,  would  be  lofty  and  su- 
perior. 

When  Gaston  looked  at  his  father's  clothes  and 
turned  them  over,  he  had  a  twinge  of  honest  emotion ; 
but  his  mind  was  on  the  dinner  and  his  heritage,  and 
he  only  said,  as  he  frowned  at  the  tightness  of  the 
waistband : 

"  Never  mind,  we'll  make  'em  pay,  shot  and  wad- 
ding, for  what  you  lost,  Robert  Belward ;  and  wher- 
ever you  are,  I  hope  you'll  see  it !  " 

In  twelve  minutes  from  the  time  he  entered  the 
bedroom  he  was  ready.  He  pulled  the  bell-cord,  and 


34:  THE  TRESPASSER. 

then  passed  out.  A  servant  met  him  on  the  stairs, 
and  in  another  minute  he  was  inside  the  dining-room. 
Sir  William's  eyes  flashed  up.  There  was  smoulder- 
ing excitement  in  his  face,  but  one  could  not  have 
guessed  at  anything  unusual.  A  seat  had  been  placed 
for  Gaston  beside  him.  The  situation  was  singular 
and  trying.  It  would  have  been  easier  if  he  had  mere- 
ly come  into  the  drawing-room  after  dinner.  This 
was  in  Sir  William's  mind  when  he  asked  him  to  dine ; 
but  it  was  as  it  was.  Gaston's  alert  glance  found  the 
empty  seat.  He  was  about  to  make  towards  it,  but  he 
caught  Sir  William's  eye  and  saw  it  signal  him  to  the 
end  of  the  table  near  him.  His  brain  was  working 
with  celerity  and  clearness.  He  now  saw  the  woman 
whose  portrait  had  so  fascinated  him  in  the  library. 
As  his  eyes  fastened  on  her  here,  he  almost  fancied  he 
could  see  the  boy's — his  father's — face  looking  over 
her  shoulder. 

He  instantly  went  to  her,  and  said  : 

"  I  am  sorry  to  be  late." 

His  first  impulse  had  been  to  offer  his  hand,  as, 
naturally,  he  would  have  done  in  "  barbaric "  lands, 
but  the  instinct  of  this  other  civilisation  was  at  work 
in  him.  He  might  have  been  a  polite  casual  guest, 
and  not  a  grandson,  bringing  the  remembrance,  the 
culmination  of  twenty-seven  years'  tragedy  into  a 
home ;  she  might  have  been  a  hostess  with  whom  he 
wished  to  be  on  terms :  that  was  all. 


HE  TELLS  THE  STORY  OF  HIS  LIFE.         35 

If  the  situation  was  trying  for  him,  it  was  painful 
for  her.  She  had  had  only  a  whispered  announcement 
before  Sir  William  led  the  way  to  dinner.  Yet  she 
was  now  all  her  husband  had  been,  and  more.  Ee- 
pression  had  been  her  practice  for  unnumbered  years, 
and  the  only  heralds  of  her  feelings  were  the  restless 
wells  of  her  dark  eyes :  the  physical  and  mental  misery 
she  had  endured  lay  hid  under  the  pale  composure  of 
her  face.  She  was  now  brought  suddenly  before  the 
composite  image  of  her  past.  Yet  she  merely  lifted  a 
slender  hand  with  long,  fine  fingers,  which,  as  they 
clasped  his,  all  at  once  trembled,  and  then  pressed 
them  hotly,  nervously.  To  his  surprise,  it  sent  a 
twinge  of  colour  to  his  cheek. 

"  It  was  good  of  you  to  come  down  after  such  a 
journey,"  she  said.  Nothing  more. 

Then  he  passed  on,  and  sat  down  to  Sir  William's 
courteous  gesture.  The  situation  had  its  difficulties 
for  the  guests — perfect  guests  as  they  were.  Every- 
one was  aware  of  a  dramatic  incident,  for  which  there 
had  been  no  preparation  save  Sir  William's  remark 
that  a  grandson  had  arrived  from  the  North  Pole  or 
thereabouts ;  and  to  continue  conversation  and  appear 
"  casual "  put  their  resources  to  some  test.  But  they 
stood  it  well,  though  their  eyes  were  busy,  and  the  talk 
was  cheerfully  mechanical.  So  occupied  were  they 
with  Gaston's  entrance,  that  they  did  not  know  how 
near  Lady  Dargan  came  to  fainting. 


36  THE  TRESPASSER. 

At  the  button-hole  of  the  coat  worn  by  Gaston 
hung  a  tiny  piece  of  red  ribbon  which  she  had  drawn 
from  her  sleeve  on  the  terrace  twenty-seven  years  ago, 
and  tied  there  with  the  words  : 

"Do  you  think  you  will  wear  it  till  we  meet 
again?" 

And  the  man  had  replied  : 

"  You'll  not  see  me  without  it,  pretty  girl — pretty 
girl!" 

A  woman  is  not  so  unaccountable  after  all.  She 
has  more  imagination  than  a  man  ;  she  has  not  many 
resources  to  console  her  for  disappointments,  and  she 
prizes  to  her  last  hour  the  swift  moments  when  won- 
derful things  seemed  possible.  That  man  is  foolish 
who  shows  himself  jealous  of  a  woman's  memories  or 
tokens — those  guarantees  of  her  womanliness. 

When  Lady  Dargan  saw  the  ribbon,  which  Gaston 
in  his  hurry  had  not  disturbed,  tied  exactly  as  she  had 
tied  it,  a  weird  feeling  came  to  her,  and  she  felt  chok- 
ing. But  her  sister's  eyes  were  on  her,  and  Mrs.  Gas- 
goyne's  voice  came  across  the  table  clearly : 

"  Sophie,  what  were  Fred  Bideford's  colours  at 
Sandown?  You  always  remember  that  kind  of 
thing." 

The  warning  was  sufficient.  Lady  Dargan  could 
make  no  effort  of  memory,  but  she  replied  without 
hesitation — or  conscience : 

"  Yellow  and  brown." 


HE  TELLS  THE  STORY  OF  HIS  LIFE.         37 

"  There,"  said  Mrs.  Gasgoyne,  "  we  are  both  wrong, 
Captain  Maudsley !  Sophie  never  makes  a  mistake." 

Maudsley  assented  politely,  but,  stealing  a  look  at 
Lady  Dargan,  wondered  what  the  little  by-play  meant. 
Gaston  was  between  Sir  William  and  Mrs.  Gasgoyne. 
He  declined  soup  and  fish,  which  had  just  been  served, 
because  he  wished  for  time  to  get  his  bearings.  He 
glanced  at  the  menu  as  if  idly  interested,  conscious 
that  he  was  under  observation.  He  felt  that  he  had, 
somehow,  the  situation  in  his  hands.  Everything  had 
gone  well,  and  he  knew  that  his  part  had  been  played 
with  some  aplomb — natural,  instinctive.  Unlike  most 
large  men,  he  had  a  mind  always  alert,  not  requiring 
the  inspiration  of  unusual  moments.  What  struck 
him  most  forcibly  now  was  the  tasteful  courtesy  which 
had  made  his  entrance  easy.  He  instinctively  com- 
pared it  to  the  courtesy  in  the  lodge  of  an  Indian 
chief,  or  of  a  Hudson's  Bay  factor  who  has  not  seen  the 
outer  world  for  half  a  century.  It  was  so  different, 
and  yet  it  was  much  the  same.  He  had  seen  a  mis- 
sionary, a  lay-reader,  come  intoxicated  into  a  council 
of  chiefs.  The  chiefs  did  not  show  that  they  knew 
his  condition  till  he  forced  them  to  do  so.  Then  two 
of  the  young  men  rose,  suddenly  pinned  him  in  their 
arms,  carried  him  out,  and  tied  him  in  a  lodge.  The 
next  morning  they  sent  him  out  of  their  country. 
Gaston  was  no  philosopher,  but  he  could  "  place  "  a 
thing  when  he  saw  it :  which  is  a  kind  of  genius. 


38  THE  TRESPASSER. 

Presently  Sir  William  said  quietly : 

"  Mrs.  Gasgoyne,  you  knew  Eobert  well ;  his  son 
ought  to  know  you." 

Gaston  turned  to  Mrs.  Gasgoyne,  and  said  in  his 
father's  manner  as  much  as  possible,  for  now  his  mind 
ran  back  to  how  his  father  talked  and  acted,  forming 
a  standard  for  him : 

"  My  father  once  told  me  a  tale  of  the  Keithley 
Hunt — something  '  away  up,'  as  they  say  in  the  West, 
— and  a  Mrs.  Warren  Gasgoyne  was  in  it." 

He  made  an  instant  friend  of  Mrs.  Gasgoyne — 
made  her  so  purposely.  This  was  one  of  the  few 
things  from  his  father's  talks  upon  his  past  life.  He 
remembered  the  story  because  it  was  interesting,  the 
name  because  it  had  a  sound. 

She  flushed  with  pleasure.  That  story  of  the  Hunt 
was  one  of  her  sweetest  recollections.  For  her  bravery 
then  she  had  been  voted  by  the  field  "  a  good  fellow," 
and  an  admiral  present  declared  that  she  had  a  head 
"  as  long  as  the  maintop  bow-line."  She  loved  admi- 
ration, though  she  had  no  foolish  sentiment ;  she  called 
men  silly  creatures,  and  yet  would  go  on  her  knees 
across  country  to  do  a  deserving  man-friend  a  service. 
She  was  fifty  and  over,  yet  she  had  the  springing  heart 
of  a  girl — mostly  hid  behind  a  brusque  manner  and  a 
blunt,  kindly  tongue. 

"  Your  father  could  always  tell  a  good  story,"  she 
said. 


HE  TELLS  THE  STORY  OF  HIS  LIFE.         39 

"  He  told  me  one  of  you :  what  about  telling  me 
one  of  him  ?  " 

Adaptable,  he  had  at  once  fallen  in  with  her  direct 
speech,  the  more  so  because  it  was  his  natural  way ; 
any  other  ways  were  "  games,"  as  he  himself  said. 

She  flashed  a  glance  at  her  sister,  and  smiled  half- 
ironically. 

"  I  could  tell  you  plenty,"  she  said  softly.  "  He 
was  a  startling  fellow,  and  went  far  sometimes ;  but 
you  look  as  if  you  could  go  farther." 

Gaston  helped  himself  to  an  entree,  wondering 
whether  a  knife  was  used  with  sweetbreads. 

"  How  far  could  he  go  ?  "  he  asked. 

"  In  the  hunting-field  with  anybody,  with  women 
endlessly,  with  meanness  like  a  snail,  and  when  his 
blood  was  up,  to  the  most  nonsensical  place  you  can 
think  of." 

Forks  only  for  sweetbreads!  Gaston  picked 
one  up. 

"  He  went  there." 

"Who  told  you?" 

"  I  came  from  there." 

"Where  is  it?" 

"  A  few  hundred  miles  from  the  Arctic  circle." 

"  Oh !  I  didn't  think  it  was  that  climate !  " 

"  It  never  is  till  you  arrive.  You  are  always  out 
in  the  cold  there." 

"  That  sounds  American." 


40  THE  TRESPASSER. 

"  Every  man  is  a  sinner  one  way  or  another." 

"You  are  very  clever — cleverer  than  your  father 
ever  was ! " 

"  I  hope  so." 

"Why?" 

"  He  went — there  !    I've  come — from  there !  " 

"  And  you  think  you  will  stay  —  never  go 
back?" 

"He  was  'out  of  it'  for  twenty  years,  and  died. 
If  I  am  'in  it'  for  that  long,  I  shall  have  had 
enough." 

Their  eyes  met.  The  woman  looked  at  him 
steadily. 

"You  won't  be,"  she  replied,  this  time  seriously, 
and  in  a  very  low  voice. 

«No?— why?" 

"Because  you  will  tire  of  it  all — though  you've 
started  very  well ! " 

She  then  answered  a  question  of  Captain  Mauds^ 
ley's,  and  turned  again  to  Gaston. 

"  What  will  make  me  tire  of  it  ?  "  he  inquired. 

She  sipped  her  champagne  musingly. 

"  Oh,  what  is  in  you  deeper  than  all  this ;  with  the 
help  of  some  woman  probably." 

She  looked  at  him  searchingly,  then  added : 

"You  seem  strangely  like  and  yet  unlike  your 
father  to-night." 

"  I  am  wearing  his  clothes,"  he  said. 


HE  TELLS  THE  STORY  OF  HIS  LIFE.         41 

She  had  plenty  of  nerve,  but  this  startled  her. 
She  shrank  a  little  :  it  seemed  uncanny.  Now  she  re- 
membered that  ribbon  in  the  button-hole  ! 

"  Poor  Sophie  !  "  she  thought.  "  And  this  one 
will  make  greater  mischief  here."  Then,  aloud  to 
him :  "  Your  father  was  a  good  fellow,  but  he  did  wild 
things." 

"  I  do  not  see  the  connection,"  he  answered.  "  I 
am  not  a  good  man,  and  I  shall  do  wilder  things — is 
that  it?" 

"  You  will  do  mad  things,"  she  replied  hardly 
above  a  whisper,  and  talked  once  more  with  Captain 
Maudsley. 

Gaston  now  turned  to  his  grandfather,  who  had 
heard  a  sentence  here  and  there,  and  felt  that  the 
young  man  carried  off  the  situation  well  enough.  He 
then  began  to  talk  in  a  general  way  about  Gaston's 
voyage,  of  the  Hudson's  Bay  Company,  and  expedi- 
tions to  the  Arctic,  drawing  Lady  Dargan  into  the 
conversation. 

Whatever  might  be  said  of  Sir  William  Belward 
he  was  an  excellent  host.  He  had  a  cool,  unmali- 
cious  wit,  but  that  man  was  unwise  who  offered  him- 
self to  its  severity.  To-night  he  surpassed  himself  in 
suggestive  talk,  until,  all  at  once,  seeing  Lady  Dar- 
gan's  eyes  fixed  on  Gaston,  he  went  silent,  sitting  back 
in  his  chair  abstracted.  Soon,  however,  a  warning 
glance  from  his  wife  brought  him  back  and  saved 


42  THE  TRESPASSER. 

Lady  Dargan  from  collapse ;  for  it  seemed  impossible 
to  talk  alone  to  this  ghost  of  her  past. 

At  this  moment  Gaston  heard  a  voice  near : 

"  As  like  as  if  he'd  stepped  out  of  the  picture,  if  it 
weren't  for  the  clothes.  A  Gaston  too !  " 

The  speaker  was  Lord  Dargan.  He  was  talking  to 
Archdeacon  Varcoe. 

Gaston  followed  Lord  Dargan's  glance  to  the  por- 
trait of  that  Sir  Gaston  Belward  whose  effigy  he  had 
seen.  He  found  himself  in  form,  feature,  expression ; 
the  bold  vigilance  of  eye,  the  primitive  activity  of 
shoulder,  the  small  firm  foot,  the  nervous  power  of  the 
hand.  The  eyes  seemed  looking  at  him.  He  answered 
to  the  look.  There  was  in  him  the  romantic  strain, 
and  something  more !  In  the  remote  parts  of  his  be- 
ing there  was  the  capacity  for  the  phenomenal,  the 
strange.  Once  again,  as  in  the  church,  he  saw  the 
field  of  Naseby,  King  Charles,  Ire  ton's  men,  Cromwell 
and  his  Ironsides,  Prince  Eupert  and  the  swarming 
rush  of  cavalry,  and  the  end  of  it  all !— Had  it  been  a 
tale  of  his  father's  at  camp-fires?  Had  he  read  it 
somewhere  ?  He  felt  his  blood  thump  in  his  veins ! 

Another  half -hour,  wherein  he  was  learning  every 
minute,  nothing  escaping  him,  everything  interesting 
him, — his  grandfather  and  Mrs.  Gasgoyne  especially, — 
then  the  ladies  retired  slowly  with  their  crippled 
hostess,  who  gave  Gaston,  as  she  rose,  a  look  almost 
painfully  intense.  It  haunted  him. 


HE  TELLS  THE  STORY  OP  HIS  LIFE.         43 

Now  Gaston  had  his  chance.  He  had  no  fear  of 
what  he  could  do  with  men  :  he  had  measured  himself 
a  few  times  with  English  gentlemen  as  he  travelled, 
and  he  knew  where  his  power  lay — not  in  making 
himself  agreeable,  but  in  imposing  his  personality. 

The  guests  were  not  soon  to  forget  the  talk  of  that 
hour.  It  played  into  Gaston's  hands.  He  pretended 
to  nothing ;  he  confessed  ignorance  here  and  there 
with  great  simplicity ;  but  he  had  the  gift  of  reducing 
things,  as  it  were,  to  their  original  elements.  He  cut 
away  to  the  core  of  a  matter,  and  having  simple,  fixed 
ideas,  he  was  able  to  focus  the  talk,  which  had  begun 
with  hunting  stories,  and  ended  with  the  morality  of 
duelling.  Gaston's  hunting  stories  had  made  them 
breathless,  his  views  upon  duelling  did  not  free  their 
lungs. 

There  were  sentimentalists  present ;  others  who, 
because  it  had  become  etiquette  not  to  cross  swords, 
thought  it  indecent.  Archdeacon  Varcoe  would  not 
be  drawn  into  discussion,  but  sipped  his  wine,  listened, 
and  watched  Gaston. 

The  young  man  measured  his  grandfather's  mind, 
and  he  drove  home  his  points  mercilessly. 

Captain  Maudsley  said  something  about "  romantic 
murder." 

"  That's  the  trouble,"  Gaston  said.  "  I  don't  know 
who  killed  duelling  in  England,  but  behind  it  must 
have  been  a  woman  or  a  shopkeeper :  sentimentalism, 


44  THE  TRESPASSER. 

timidity  ;  dead  romance.  What  is  patriotism  but  ro- 
mance ? — ideals  is  what  they  call  it  somewhere.  I've 
lived  in  a  land  full  of  hard  work  and  dangers,  but  also 
full  of  romance.  What  is  the  result  ? — A  people  off 
there  that  you  pity,  and  who  don't  need  pity.  Ro- 
mance? See:  you  only  get  square  justice  out  of  a 
wise  autocrat,  not  out  of  your  '  twelve  true  men ' ; 
and  duelling  is  the  last  decent  relic  of  autocracy. 
Suppose  the  wronged  man  does  get  killed ;  that  is  all 
right :  it  wasn't  merely  blood  he  was  after,  but  the 
right  to  hit  a  man  in  the  eye  for  a  wrong  done.  What 
is  all  this  hullaballoo  about  saving  human  life  ?  There's 
as  much  interest — and  duty — in  dying  as  living,  if  you 
go  the  way  your  conscience  tells  you." 

A  couple  of  hours  later,  Gaston,  after  having  seen 
to  his  horse,  stood  alone  in  the  drawing-room  with 
his  grandfather  and  grandmother.  As  yet  Lady  Bel- 
ward  had  spoken  not  half  a  dozen  words  to  him.  Sir 
William  presently  said  to  him  : 

"  Are  you  too  tired  to  join  us  in  the  library  ?  " 

"  I'm  as  fresh  as  paint,  sir,"  was  the  reply. 

Lady  Belward  turned  without  a  word,  and  slowly 
passed  from  the  room.  Gaston's  eyes  followed  the 
crippled  figure,  which  yet  had  a  rare  dignity.  He  had 
a  sudden  impulse.  He  stepped  to  her  and  said  with 
an  almost  boyish  simplicity : 

"You  are  very  tired;  let  me  carry  you — grand- 
mother ! " 


HE  TELLS  THE  STORY  OF  HIS  LIFE.         45 

He  could  hear  Sir  William  gasp  a  little  as  he  laid 
a  quick  warm  hand  on  hers  that  held  the  cane.  She 
looked  at  him  gravely,  sadly,  and  then  said : 

"  I  will  take  your  arm,  if  you  please." 

He  took  the  cane,  and  she  put  a  hand  towards  him. 
He  ran  his  strong  arm  round  her  waist  with  a  little 
humouring  laugh,  her  hand  rested  on  his  shoulder,  and 
he  timed  his  step  to  hers.  Sir  William  was  in  an  eddy 
of  wonder — a  strong  head  was  "  mazed."  He  had 
looked  for  a  different  reception  of  this  uncommon  kins- 
man. How  quickly  had  the  new-comer  conquered 
himself !  And  yet  he  had  a  slight  strangeness  of  ac- 
cent— not  American,  but  something  which  seemed  un- 
usual. He  did  not  reckon  with  a  voice  which,  under 
cover  of  easy  deliberation,  had  a  convincing  quality ; 
with  a  manner  of  old-fashioned  courtesy  and  stateli- 
ness.  As  Mrs.  Warren  Gasgoyne  had  said  to  the  rector, 
whose  eyes  had  followed  Gaston  everywhere  in  the  draw- 
ing-room : 

"  My  dear  archdeacon,  where  did  he  get  it?  Why, 
he  has  lived  most  of  his  life  with  savages ! " 

"Vandyke  might  have  painted  the  man,"  Lord 
Dargan  had  added. 

"  Vandyke  did  paint  him,"  had  put  in  Delia  Gas- 
goyne from  behind  her  mother. 

"  How  do  you  mean,  Delia  ? "  Mrs.  Gasgoyne  had 
added,  looking  curiously  at  her. 

"  His  picture  hangs  in  the  dining-room." 


46  THE  TRESPASSER. 

Then  the  picture  had  been  discussed,  and  the  girl's 
eyes  had  followed  Gaston — followed  him  until  he  had 
caught  their  glance.  Without  an  introduction,  he  had 
come  and  dropped  into  conversation  with  her,  till  her 
mother  cleverly  interrupted. 

Inside  the  library  Lady  Belward  was  comfortably 
placed,  and  looking  up  at  Gaston,  said : 

"  You  have  your  father's  ways :  I  hope  that  you  will 
be  wiser." 

"  If  you  will  teach  me  ! "  he  answered  gently. 

There  came  two  little  bright  spots  on  her  cheeks, 
and  her  hands  clasped  in  her  lap.  They  all  sat  down. 

Sir  William  spoke : 

"It  is  much  to  ask  that  you  should  tell  us  of  your 
life  now,  but  it  is  better  that  we  should  start  with  some 
knowledge  of  each  other." 

At  that  moment  Gaston's  eyes  caught  the  strange 
picture  on  the  wall. 

"  I  understand,"  he  answered.  "  But  I  would  be 
starting  in  the  middle  of  a  story." 

"  You  mean  that  you  wish  to  hear  your  father's  his- 
tory ?  Did  he  not  tell  you  ?  " 

"  Trifles— that  is  all." 

"  Did  he  ever  speak  of  me  ?  "  asked  Lady  Belward 
with  low  anxiety. 

"  Yes,  when  he  was  dying." 

"What  did  he  say?" 

"He  said:   'Tell  my  mother  that  Truth  waits 


HE  TELLS  THE  STORY  OF  HIS  LIFE.         47 

long,  but  whips  hard.  Tell  her  that  I  always  loved 
her.'  " 

She  shrank  in  her  chair  as  if  from  a  blow,  and 
then  was  white  and  motionless. 

"  Let  us  hear  your  story,"  Sir  William  said  with  a 
sort  of  hauteur.  "  You  know  your  own,  much  of  your 
father's  lies  buried  with  him." 

"Very  well,  sir." 

Sir  William  drew  a  chair  up  beside  his  wife.  Gas- 
ton  sat  back,  and  for  a  moment  did  not  speak.  He 
was  looking  into  distance.  Presently  the  blue  of  his 
eyes  went  all  black,  and  with  strange  unwavering 
concentration  he  gazed  straight  before  him.  A  light 
spread  over  his  face,  his  hands  felt  for  the  chair-arms 
and  held  them  firmly.  He  began  : 

"  I  first  remember  swinging  in  a  blanket  from  a 
pine-tree  at  a  buffalo-hunt  while  my  mother  cooked 
the  dinner.  There  were  scores  of  tents,  horses,  and 
many  Indians  and  half-breeds,  and  a  few  white  men. 
My  father  was  in  command.  I  can  see  my  mother's 
face  as  she  stood  over  the  fire.  It  was  not  darker 
than  mine ;  she  always  seemed  more  French  than  In- 
dian, and  she  was  thought  comely." 

Lady  Belward  shuddered  a  little,  but  Gaston  did 
not  notice. 

"  I  can  remember  the  great  buffalo-hunt.  You 
heard  a  heavy  rumbling  sound ;  you  saw  a  cloud  on 
the  prairie.  It  heaved,  a  steam  came  from  it,  and 


48  THE  TRESPASSER. 

sometimes  you  caught  the  flash  of  ten  thousand  eyes 
as  the  beasts  tossed  their  heads  and  then  bent  them 
again  to  the  ground  and  rolled  on,  five  hundred  men 
after  them,  our  women  shouting  and  laughing,  and 
arrows  and  bullets  flying.  ...  I  can  remember  a  time 
also  when  a  great  Indian  battle  happened  just  outside 
the  fort,  and,  with  my  mother  crying  after  him,  my 
father  went  out  with  a  priest  to  stop  it.  My  father 
was  wounded,  and  then  the  priest  frightened  them, 
and  they  gathered  their  dead  together  and  buried 
them.  We  lived  in  a  fort  for  a  long  time,  and  my 
mother  died  there.  She  was  a  good  woman,  and  she 
loved  my  father.  I  have  seen  her  on  her  knees  for 
hours  praying  when  he  was  away. — I  have  her  rosary 
now.  They  called  her  Ste.  Heloise.  Afterwards  I 
was  always  with  my  father.  He  was  a  good  man,  but 
he  was  never  happy ;  and  only  at  the  last  would  he 
listen  to  the  priest,  though  they  were  always  great 
friends.  He  was  not  a  Catholic  of  course,  but  he  said 
that  didn't  matter." 

Sir  William  interrupted  huskily  : 

"  Why  did  he  never  come  back  ?  " 

"  I  do  not  know  quite,  but  he  said  to  me  once : 
*  Gaston,  you'll  tell  them  of  me  some  day,  and  it  will 
be  a  soft  pillow  for  their  heads !  You  can  mend  a 
broken  life,  but  the  ring  of  it  is  gone ! '  I  think  he 
meant  to  come  back  when  I  was  about  fourteen ;  but 
things  happened,  and  he  stayed." 


HE  TELLS  THE  STORY  OP  HIS  LIFE.         49 

There  was  a  pause.  Gaston  seemed  brooding,  and 
Lady  Bel  ward  said : 

"  Go  on,  please." 

"  There  isn't  so  very  much  to  tell.  The  life  was 
the  only  one  I  had  known,  and  it  was  all  right.  But 
my  father  had  told  me  of  this  life.  He  taught  me 
himself— he  and  Father  Decluse  and  a  Moravian  mis- 
sionary for  awhile.  I  knew  some  Latin  and  history,  a 
bit  of  mathematics,  a  good  deal  of  astronomy,  some 
French  poets,  and  Shakespere.  Shakespere  is  wonder- 
ful!  ...  My  father  wanted  me  to  come  here  at  once 
after  he  died,  but  I  knew  better — I  wanted  to  get 
sense  first.  So  I  took  a  place  in  the  Company.  It 
wasn't  all  fun.  I  had  to  keep  my  wits  sharp.  I  was 
only  a  youngster,  and  I  had  to  do  with  men  as  crafty 
and  as  silly  as  old  Polonius.  I  was  sent  to  Labrador. 
That  was  not  a  life  for  a  Christian.  Once  a  year  a 
ship  comes  to  the  port,  bringing  the  year's  mail  and 
news  from  the  world.  When  you  watch  that  ship  go 
out  again,  and  you  turn  round  and  see  the  filthy 
Esquimaux  and  Indians,  and  know  that  you've  got 
to  live  for  another  year  with  them,  —  sit  in  their 
dirty  tepees,  eat  their  raw  frozen  meat,  with  an 
occasional  glut  of  pemmican,  and  the  thermometer 
70  degrees  below  zero,  —  you  get  a  lump  in  your 
throat. 

"Then  came  one  winter.  I  had  one  white  man, 
two  half-breeds,  and  an  Indian  with  me.  There  was 


50  THE  TRESPASSER. 

darkness  day  after  day,  and  because  the  Esquimaux 
and  Indians  hadn't  come  up  to  the  fort  that  winter,  it 
was  lonely  as  a  tomb.  One  by  one  the  men  got  melan- 
choly and  then  went  mad,  and  I  had  to  tie  them  up, 
and  care  for  them  and  feed  them.  The  Indian  was  all 
right,  but  he  got  afraid,  and  wanted  to  start  to  a  mis- 
sion station  three  hundred  miles  on.  It  was  a  bad 
lookout  for  me,  but  I  told  him  to  go.  I  was  left  alone. 
I  was  only  twenty-one,  but  I  was  steel  to  my  toes — 
good  for  wear  and  tear.  Well,  I  had  one  solid  month 
all  alone  with  my  madmen.  Their  jabbering  made 
me  seasick  sometimes.  At  last  one  day  I  felt  I'd  go 
staring  mad  myself  if  I  didn't  do  something  exciting 
to  lift  me,  as  it  were.  I  got  a  revolver,  sat  at  the 
opposite  end  of  the  room  from  the  three  lunatics,  and 
practised  shooting  at  them.  I  had  got  it  into  my 
head  that  they  ought  to  die,  but  it  was  only  fair,  I 
thought,  to  give  them  a  chance.  I  would  try  hard  to 
shoot  all  round  them — make  a  halo  of  bullets  for  the 
head  of  every  one,  draw  them  in  silhouettes  of  solid 
lead  on  the  wall. 

"  I  talked  to  them  first,  and  told  them  what  I  was 
going  to  do.  They  seemed  to  understand,  and  didn't 
object.  I  began  with  the  silhouettes,  of  course.  I 
had  a  box  of  bullets  beside  me.  They  never  squealed. 
I  sent  the  bullets  round  them  as  pretty  as  the  pattern 
of  a  milliner.  Then  I  began  with  their  heads.  I  did 
two  all  right.  They  sat  and  never  stirred.  But  when 


HE  TELLS  THE  STORY  OF  HIS  LIFE.          51 

I  came  to  the  last  something  happened.     It  was  Jock 
Lawson." 

Sir  William  interposed : 
"  Jock  Lawson ! — Jock  Lawson  from  here  ?  " 
"  Yes.    His  mother  keeps  '  The  Whisk  o'  Barley.' " 
"  So,  that  is  where  Jock  Lawson  went  ?    He  fol- 
lowed your  father  ?  " 

"Yes. — Jock  was  mad  enough  when  I  began — 
clean  gone.  But,  somehow,  the  game  I  was  playing 
cured  him.  '  Steady,  Jock ! '  I  said.  *  Steady ! '  for  I 
saw  him  move.  I  levelled  for  the  second  bead  of  the 
halo.  My  finger  was  on  the  trigger.  '  My  God !  don't 
shoot ! '  he  called.  It  startled  me,  my  hand  shook, 
the  thing  went  off,  and  Jock  had  a  bullet  through  his 
brain !  .  .  .  Then  I  waked  up.  Perhaps  I  had  been 
mad  myself — I  don't  know.  But  my  brain  never 
seemed  clearer  than  when  I  was  playing  that  game. 
It  was  like  a  magnifying  glass :  and  my  eyes  were  so 
clear  and  strong  that  I  could  see  the  pores  on  their 
skin,  and  the  drops  of  sweat  breaking  out  on  Jock's 
forehead  when  he  yelled ! " 

A  low  moan  came  from  Lady  Bel  wood.     Her  face 
was  drawn  and  pale,  but  her  eyes  were  on  Gaston  with 
a  deep  fascination.     Sir  William  whispered  to  her. 
«  No,"  she  said,  "  I  will  stay." 
Gaston  saw  the  impression  he  had  made. 
"  Well,  I  had  to  bury  poor  Jock  all  alone.     I  don't 
think  I  should  have  minded  it  so  much,  if  it  hadn't 


52  THE  TRESPASSER. 

been  for  the  faces  of  those  other  two  crazy  men.  One 
of  them  sat  still  as  death,  his.  eyes  following  me  with 
one  long  stare,  and  the  other  kept  praying  all  the  time 
— he'd  been  a  lay  preacher  once  before  he  backslided, 
and  it  came  back  on  him  now  naturally.  Now  it 
would  be  from  Kevelation,  now  out  of  the  Psalms,  and 
again  a  swinging  exhortation  for  the  Spirit  to  come 
down  and  convict  me  of  sin.  There  was  a  lot  of 
sanity  in  it  too,  for  he  kept  saying  at  last :  '  0  shut 
not  up  my  soul  with  the  sinners :  nor  my  life  with  the 
bloodthirsty.'  I  couldn't  stand  it,  with  Jock  dead 
there  before  me,  so  I  gave  him  a  heavy  dose  of  pare- 
goric out  of  the  Company's  stores.  Before  he  took  it 
he  raised  his  finger  and  said  to  me,  with  a  beastly 
stare  :  '  Thou  art  the  man  ! '  But  the  paregoric  put 
him  to  sleep.  .  .  . 

"Then  I  gave  the  other  something  to  eat,  and 
dragged  Jock  out  to  bury  him.  I  remembered  then 
that  he  couldn't  be  buried,  for  the  ground  was  too 
hard  and  the  ice  too  thick ;  so  I  got  ropes,  and,  when 
he  stiffened,  slung  him  up  into  a  big  cedar  tree,  and 
then  went  up  myself  and  arranged  the  branches  about 
him  comfortably.  It  seemed  to  me  that  Jock  was  a 
baby  and  I  was  his  father.  You  couldn't  see  any 
blood,  and  I  fixed  his  hair  so  that  it  covered  the  hole 
in  the  forehead.  I  remember  I  kissed  him  on  the 
cheek,  and  then  said  a  prayer — one  that  I  'd  got  out 
of  my  father's  prayer-book :  '  That  it  may  please 


HE  TELLS  THE  STORY  OF  HIS  LIFE.          53 

Thee  to  preserve  all  that  travel  by  land  or  by  water, 
all  women  labouring  of  child,  all  sick  persons  and 
young  children  ;  and  to  show  Thy  pity  upon  all  pris- 
oners and  captives?  Somehow  I  had  got  it  into  my 
head  that  Jock  was  going  on  a  long  journey,  and  that 
I  was  a  prisoner  and  a  captive." 

Gaston  broke  off,  and  said  presently : 

"  Perhaps  this  is  all  too  awful  to  hear,  but  it  gives 
you  an  idea  of  what  kind  of  things  went  to  make  me." 

Lady  Belward  answered  for  both : 

"  Tell  us  all— everything ! " 

"  It  is  late,"  said  Sir  William,  nervously. 

"  What  does  it  matter  ?  It  is  once  in  a  lifetime," 
she  answered  sadly. 

Gaston  took  up  the  thread : 

"  Now  I  come  to  what  will  shock  you  even  more, 
perhaps.  So,  be  prepared.  I  don't  know  how  many 
days  went,  but  at  last  I  had  three  visitors — in  time  I 
should  think :  a  Moravian  missionary,  and  an  Esqui- 
maux and  his  daughter.  I  didn't  tell  the  missionary 
about  Jock — there  was  no  use,  it  could  do  no  good. 
They  stayed  four  weeks,  and  during  that  time  one  of  the 
crazy  men  died.  The  other  got  better,  but  had  to  be 
watched.  I  could  do  anything  with  him,  if  I  got  my 
eye  on  him.  Somehow,  I  must  tell  you,  I've  got  a 
lot  of  power  that  way.  I  don't  know  where  it  comes 
from.  Well,  the  missionary  had  to  go.  The  old  Es- 
quimaux thought  that  he  and  his  daughter  would  stay 


54:  THE  TRESPASSER. 

on  if  I'd  let  them.  I  was  only  too  glad.  But  it  wasn't 
wise  for  the  missionary  to  take  the  journey  alone, — it 
was  a  bad  business  in  any  case.  I  urged  the  man  that 
had  been  crazy  to  go,  for  I  thought  activity  would  do 
him  good.  He  agreed,  and  the  two  left  and  got  to  the 
Mission  Station  all  right,  after  wicked  trouble.  I  was 
alone  with  the  Esquimaux  and  his  daughter.  You 
never  know  why  certain  things  happen,  and  I  can't 
tell  why  that  winter  was  so  weird  ;  why  the  old  Esqui- 
maux should  take  sick  one  morning,  and  in  the  even- 
ing should  call  me  and  his  daughter  Lucy — she'd  been 
given  a  Christian  name,  of  course — and  say  that  he 
was  going  to  die,  and  he  wanted  me  to  marry  her  " — 
(Lady  Belward  exclaimed,  Sir  William's  hands  fin- 
gered the  chair-arm  nervously) — "  there  and  then,  so 
that  he'd  know  she  would  be  cared  for.  He  was  a 
heathen,  but  he  had  been  primed  by  the  missionaries 
about  his  daughter.  She  was  a  fine,  clever  girl,  and 
well  educated— the  best  product  of  their  mission.  So 
he  called  for  a  Bible.  There  wasn't  one  in  the  place, 
but  I  had  my  mother's  Book  of  the  Mass.  I  went  to 
get  it,  but  when  I  set  my  eyes  on  it,  I  couldn't — no,  I 
couldn't  do  it,  for  I  hadn't  the  least  idea  but  what  I 
should  bid  my  lady  good-bye  when  it  suited,  and  I 
didn't  want  any  swearing  at  all — not  a  bit.  I  didn't 
do  any.  But  what  happened  had  to  be  with  or  with- 
out any  ring  or  book  and  c  Forasmuch  as.'  There  had 
been  so  much  funeral  and  sudden  death,  that  a  mar- 


HE  TELLS  THE  STORY  OF  HIS  LIFE.         55 

riage  would  be  a  God-send  anyhow.  So  the  old  Esqui- 
maux got  our  two  hands  in  his,  babbled  away  in  half- 
English,  half -Esquimaux,  with  the  girl's  eyes  shining 
like  a  she- moose  over  a  dying  buck,  and  about  the 
time  we  kissed  each  other,  his  head  dropped  back — and 
that  is  all  there  was  about  that ! " 

Gaston  now  kept  his  eyes  on  his  listeners.  He 
was  aware  that  his  story  must  sound  to  them  as  bru- 
tal as  might  be,  but  it  was  a  phase  of  his  life,  and, 
so  far  as  he  could,  he  wanted  to  start  with  a  clean 
sheet ;  not  out  of  love  of  confidence,  for  he  was  self- 
contained,  but  he  would  have  enough  to  do  to  shep- 
herd his  future  without  shepherding  his  past.  He 
saw  that  Lady  Belward  had  a  sickly  fear  in  her  face, 
while  Sir  William  had  gone  stern  and  hard. 

He  went  on : 

"  It  saved  the  situation,  did  that  marriage ;  though 
it  was  no  marriage  you  will  say.  Neither  was  it  one 
way,  and  I  didn't  intend  at  the  start  to  stand  by  it  an 
hour  longer  than  I  wished.  But  she  was  more  than 
I  looked  for,  and  it  seems  to  me  that  she  saved  my 
life  that  winter,  or  my  reason  anyhow.  There  had 
been  so  much  tragedy  that  I  used  to  wonder  every 
day  what  would  happen  before  night :  and  that's  not 
a  good  thing  for  the  brain  of  a  chap  of  twenty-one 
or  two.  The  funny  part  of  it  is  that  she  wasn't  a 
pagan — not  a  bit !  She  could  read  and  speak  English 
in  a  sweet  old-fashioned  way,  and  she  used  to  sing  to 


56  THE  TRESPASSER. 

me — such  a  funny,  sorry  little  voice  she  had — hymns 
the  Moravians  had  taught  her,  and  one  or  two  Eng- 
lish songs.  I  taught  her  one  or  two  besides,  *  Where 
the  Hawthorn  Tree  is  Blooming,'  and  '  Allan  Water ' 
— the  first  my  father  had  taught  me,  the  other  an  old 
Scotch  trader.  It's  different  with  a  woman  and  a  man 
in  a  place  like  that.  Two  men  will  go  mad  together, 
but  there's  a  saving  something  in  the  contact  of  a 
man's  brain  with  a  woman's.  I  got  fond  of  her, — 
any  man  would  have, — for  she  had  something  that  I 
never  saw  in  any  heathen,  certainly  in  no  Indian; 
you'll  see  it  in  women  from  Iceland.  I  determined  to 
marry  her  in  regular  style  when  spring  and  a  mission- 
ary came.  You  can't  understand,  maybe,  how  one 
can  settle  to  a  life  where  you've  got  companionship, 
and  let  the  world  go  by.  About  that  time,  I  thought 
that  I'd  let  Eidley  Court  and  the  rest  of  it  go  as  a 
boy's  dreams  go.  I  didn't  seem  to  know  that  I  was 
only  satisfied  in  one  set  of  my  instincts.  Spring 
came,  so  did  a  missionary,  and  for  better  or  worse 
it  was!" 

Sir  William  came  to  his  feet. 

"  My  God ! "  he  broke  out. 

His  wife  tried  to  rise,  but  could  not. 
"This  makes  everything  impossible,"   added   the 
baronet  shortly. 

"  Oh  no,  it  makes  nothing  impossible — if  you  will 
listen." 


HE  TELLS  THE  STORY  OF  HIS  LIFE.         5? 

Gaston  was  cool.  He  had  begun  playing  for  the 
stakes  from  one  standpoint,  and  he  would  not  turn 
back. 

He  continued : 

"  I  lived  with  her  happily :  I  never  expect  to  have 
happiness  like  that  again — never, — and  after  two 
years  at  another  post  in  Labrador,  came  word  from 
the  Company  that  I  might  go  to  Quebec,  there  to  be 
given  my  choice  of  posts.  I  went.  By  this  time  I 
had  again  vague  ideas  that  sometime  I  should  come 
here,  but  how  or  why  I  couldn't  tell;  I  was  drift- 
ing, and  for  her  sake  willing  to  drift.  I  was  glad 
to  take  her  to  Quebec,  for  I  guessed  she  would  get 
ideas,  and  it  didn't  strike  me  that  she  would  be  out  of 
place.  So  we  went.  But  she  was  out  of  place  in 
many  ways.  It  did  not  suit  at  all.  We  were  asked  to 
good  houses,  for  I  believe  I  have  always  had  enough 
of  the  Belward  in  me  to  keep  my  end  up  anywhere. 
The  thing  went  on  pretty  well,  but  at  last  she  used  to 
beg  me  to  go  without  her  to  excursions  and  parties. 
There  were  always  one  or  two  quiet  women  whom  she 
liked  to  sit  with,  and  because  she  seemed  happier  for 
me  to  go,  I  did.  I  was  popular,  and  got  along  with 
women  well ;  but  I  tell  you  honestly  I  loved  my  wife 
all  the  time;  so  that  when  a  Christian  busybody 
poured  into  her  ears  some  self-made  scandal,  it  was  a 
brutal,  awful  lie — brutal  and  awful,  for  she  had  never 

known  jealousy :  it  did  not  belong  to  her  old  social 
5 


58  THE  TRESPASSER. 

creed.  But  it  was  in  the  core  of  her  somewhere,  and 
an  aboriginal  passion  at  work  naked  is  a  thing  to  be 
remembered.  I  had  to  face  it  one  night.  .  .  . 

"  I  was  quiet,  and  did  what  I  could.  After  that  I 
insisted  on  her  going  with  me  wherever  I  went,  but 
she  had  changed,  and  I  saw  that,  in  spite  of  herself, 
the  thing  grew.  One  day  we  went  on  an  excursion 
down  the  St.  Lawrence.  We  were  merry,  and  I  was 
telling  yarns.  We  were  just  nearing  a  landing-stage, 
when  a  pretty  girl,  with  more  gush  than  sense,  caught 
me  by  the  arm  and  begged  some  ridiculous  thing  of 
me — an  autograph,  or  what  not.  A  minute  after- 
wards I  saw  my  wife  spring  from  the  bulwarks  down 
on  the  landing-stage,  and  rush  up  the  shore  into  the 
woods.  .  .  .  We  were  two  days  finding  her.  That 
settled  it !  I  was  sick  enough  at  heart,  and  I  deter- 
mined to  go  back  to  Labrador.  We  did  so.  Every- 
thing had  gone  on  the  rocks.  My  wife  was  not,  never 
would  be,  the  same  again.  She  taunted  me  and  wor- 
ried me,  and  because  I  would  not  quarrel,  seemed  to 
have  a  greater  grievance — jealousy  is  a  kind  of  mad- 
ness. One  night  she  was  most  galling,  and  I  sat  still 
and  said  nothing.  My  life  seemed  gone  of  a  heap  :  I 
was  sick — sick  to  the  teeth ;  hopeless,  looking  forward 
to  nothing.  I  imagine  my  hard  quietness  roused  her. 
She  said  something  hateful — something  about  having 
married  her,  and  not  a  woman  from  Quebec.  I  smiled 
— I  couldn't  help  it ;  then  I  laughed,  a  bit  wild,  I 


HE  TELLS  THE  STORY  OF  HIS  LIFE.         59 

suppose.  I  saw  the  flash  of  steel.  ...  I  believe  I 
laughed  in  her  face  as  I  fell.  When  I  came  to  she 
was  lying  with  her  head  on  my  breast — dead — stone 
dead ! " 

Lady  Belward  sat  with  closed  eyes,  her  fingers 
clasping  and  unclasping  on  the  top  of  her  cane ;  but 
Sir  William  wore  a  look  half-satisfied,  half-excited. 

He  now  hurried  his  story. 

"  I  got  well,  and  after  that  stayed  in  the  North  for 
a  year.  Then  I  passed  down  the  continent  to  Mexico 
and  South  America.  There  I  got  a  commission  to  go 
to  New  Zealand  and  Australia  to  sell  a  lot  of  horses. 
I  did  so,  and  spent  some  time  in  the  South  Sea  Is- 
lands. Again  I  drifted  back  to  the  Eockies  and  over 
into  the  plains ;  found  Jacques  Brillon,  my  servant, 
had  a  couple  of  years'  work  and  play,  gathered  together 
some  money,  as  good  a  horse  and  outfit  as  the  North 
could  give,  and  started  with  Brillon  and  his  broncho, — 
having  got  both  sense  and  experience,  I  hope — for 
Ridley  Court.  And  here  I  am  !  There's  a  lot  of  my 
life  that  I  haven't  told  you  of,  but  it  doesn't  matter, 
because  it's  adventure  mostly,  and  it  can  be  told  at 
any  time  ;  but  these  are  essential  facts,  and  it  is  better 
that  you  should  hear  them.  And  that  is  all,  grand- 
father and  grandmother." 

After  a  minute  Lady  Belward  rose,  leaned  on  her 
crutch,  and  looked  at  him  wistfully.  Sir  William 
said- 


60  THE  TRESPASSER. 

"  Are  you  sure  that  you  will  suit  this  life,  or  it 
you?" 

"  It  is  the  only  idea  I  have  at  present ;  and,  any- 
how, it  is  my  rightful  home,  sir." 

"  I  was  not  thinking  of  your  rights,  but  of  the 
happiness  of  us  all." 

Lady  Belward  limped  to  him,  and  laid  a  hand  on 
his  shoulder. 

"  You  have  had  one  great  tragedy,  so  have  we : 
neither  could  hear  another.  Try  to  be  worthy — of 
your  home." 

Then  she  solemnly  kissed  him  on  the  cheek. 

Soon  afterwards  they  went  to  their  rooms. 


CHAPTER  IV. 

AN  HOUR  WITH   HIS  FATHER'S   PAST. 

IN"  his  bedroom  Gaston  made  a  discovery.  He 
chanced  to  place  his  hand  in  the  tail-pocket  of  the 
coat  he  had  worn.  He  drew  forth  a  letter.  The  ink 
was  faded,  and  the  lines  were  scrawled.  It  ran  : 

"  It's  no  good.  Mr.  lan's  been !  It's  face  the  musik  now. 
If  you  want  me,  say  so.  I'm  for  kicks  or  ha'pence — no 
diffrense.  "  Yours,  J." 

He  knew  the  writing  very  well — Jock  Lawson's ! 
There  had  been  some  trouble,  and  Mr.  Ian  had 
"been,"  bringing  peril.  What  was  it?  His  father 
and  Jock  had  kept  the  secret  from  him. 

He  put  his  hand  in  the  pocket  again.  There  was 
another  note — this  time  in  a  woman's  handwriting : 

"  Oh,  come  to  me,  if  you  would  save  us  both !  Do  not  fail ! 
God  help  us  !  Oh,  Robert !  " 

It  was  signed  "  Agnes." 

Well,  here  was  something  of  mystery ;  but  he  did 
not  trouble  himself  about  that.  He  was  not  at  Rid- 
ley Court  to  solve  mysteries,  to  probe  into  the  past,  to 


62  THE  TRESPASSER. 

set  his  father's  wrongs  right ;  but  to  serve  himself,  to 
reap  for  all  those  years  wherein  his  father  had  not 
reaped.  He  enjoyed  life,  and  he  would  search  this 
one  to  the  full  of  his  desires.  Before  he  retired  he 
studied  the  room,  handling  things  that  lay  where  his 
father  placed  them  so  many  years  before.  He  was 
not  without  emotions  in  this,  but  he  held  himself 
firm. 

As  he  stood  ready  to  get  into  bed,  his  eyes  chanced 
upon  a  portrait  of  his  uncle  Ian. 

"  There's  where  the  tug  comes  ! "  he  said,  nodding 
at  it.  "  Shake  hands,  and  ten  paces,  Uncle  Ian  ?  " 

Then  he  blew  out  the  candle,  and  in  five  minutes 
was  sound  asleep. 

He  was  out  at  six  o'clock.  He  made  for  the 
stables,  and  found  Jacques  pacing  the  yard.  He 
smiled  at  Jacques'  dazed  look. 

"  What  about  the  horse,  Brillon  ? "  he  said,  nod- 
ding as  he  came  up. 

"  Saracen's  had  a  slice  of  the  stable-boy's  shoulder 
—sir." 

Amusement  loitered  in  Gaston's  eyes.  The  "  sir  " 
had  stuck  in  Jacques'  throat. 

"  Saracen  has  established  himself,  then  ?  Good ! 
And  the  broncho  ?  " 

"  Bien,  a  trifle  only.  They  laugh  much  in  the 
kitchen " 

"The  hall,  Brillon." 


AN  HOUR  WITH  HIS  FATHER'S  PAST.        63 

" in  the  hall  last  night.  That  hired  man 

over  there " 

"  That  groom,  Brillon." 

" that  groom,  he  was  a  fool,  and  fat.  He  was 

the  worst.  This  morning  he  laugh  at  my  broncho. 
He  say  a  horse  like  that  is  nothing :  no  pace,  no 
travel.  I  say  the  broncho  was  not  so  ver'  bad,  and  I 
tell  him  try  the  paces.  I  whisper  soft,  and  the 
broncho  stand  like  a  lamb.  He  mount,  and  sneer, 
and  grin  at  the  high  pommel,  and  start.  For  a 
minute  it  was  pretty;  and  then  I  give  a  little  soft 
call,  and  in  a  minute  there  was  the  broncho  bucking 
— doubling  like  a  hoop,  and  dropping  same  as  lead. 
Once  that — groom — come  down  on  the  pommel,  then 
over  on  the  ground  like  a  ball,  all  muck  and  blood ! " 

The  half-breed  paused,  looking  innocently  before 
him.  Gaston's  mouth  quirked. 

"  A  solid  success,  Brillon.  Teach  them  all  the 
tricks  you  can.  At  ten  o'clock  come  to  my  room. 
The  campaign  begins  then." 

Jacques  ran  a  hand  through  his  long  black  hair, 
and  fingered  his  sash.  Gaston  understood. 

"  The  hair  and  ear-rings  may  remain,  Brillon ;  but 
the  beard  and  clothes  must  go — except  for  occasions. 
Come  along ! " 

For  the  next  two  hours  Gaston  explored  the  stables 
and  the  grounds.  Nothing  escaped  him.  He  gathered 
every  incident  of  the  surroundings,  and  talked  to  the 


64  THE  TRESPASSER. 

servants  freely,  softly,  and  easily,  yet  with  a  superior- 
ity, which  suddenly  was  imposed  in  the  case  of  the 
huntsman  at  the  kennels — for  the  Whipshire  hounds 
were  here.  Gaston  had  never  ridden  to  hounds.  It 
was  not,  however,  his  cue  to  pretend  knowledge.  He 
was  strong  enough  to  admit  ignorance.  He  stood 
leaning  against  the  door  of  the  kennels,  arms  folded, 
eyes  half-closed,  with  the  sense  of  a  painter,  before  the 
turning  bunch  of  brown  and  white,  getting  the  charm 
of  distance  and  soft  tones.  His  blood  beat  hard,  for 
suddenly  he  felt  as  if  he  had  been  behind  just  such  a 
pack  one  day,  one  clear  desirable  day  of  spring.  He 
saw  people  gathering  at  the  kennels ;  saw  men  drink 
beer  and  eat  sandwiches  at  the  door  of  the  huntsman's 
house, — a  long,  low  dwelling,  with  crumbling  arched 
doorways  like  those  of  a  monastery, — watched  them 
get  away  from  the  top  of  the  moor,  he  among  them ; 
heard  the  horn,  the  whips;  and  saw  the  fox  break 
cover.  Then  came  a  rare  run  for  five  sweet  miles — 
down  a  long  valley — over  quick-set  hedges,  with  stiff- 
ish  streams — another  hill — a  great  combe — a  lovely 
valley  stretching  out — a  swerve  to  the  right — over  a 
gate — and  the  brush  got  at  a  farm-house  door ! 

Surely,  he  had  seen  it  all ;  but  what  kink  of  the 
brain  was  it  that  the  men  wore  flowing  wigs  and  im- 
mense boot-legs,  and  sported  lace  in  the  hunting-field  ? 
And  why  did  he  see  within  that  picture  another  of 
two  ladies  and  a  gentleman  hawking  ? 


AN  HOUR  WITH  HIS  FATHER'S  PAST.        65 

He  was  roused  from  his  dream  by  hearing  the 
huntsman  say  in  a  quizzical  voice : 

"  How  do  you  like  the  dogs,  sir  ?  " 

To  his  last  day  Lugley,  the  huntsman,  remembered 
the  slow  look  of  cold  surprise,  of  masterful  malice, 
scathing  him  from  head  to  foot.  The  words  that  fol- 
lowed the  look,  simple  as  they  were,  drove  home  the 
naked  reproof : 

"  "What  is  your  name,  my  man  ?  " 

"  Lugley,  sir." 

"  Lugley !  Lugley !  H'm !  Well,  Lugley,  I  like 
the  hounds  better  than  I  like  you.  Who  is  Master  of 
the  Hounds,  Lugley  ?  " 

"  Captain  Maudsley,  sir." 

"Just  so.  You  are  satisfied  with  your  place, 
Lugley?" 

"  Yes,  sir,"  said  the  man  in  a  humble  voice,  now 
cowed. 

The  news  of  the  arrival  of  the  strangers  had  come 
to  him  late  at  night,  and,  with  Whipshire  stupidity, 
he  had  thought  that  anyone  coming  from  the  wilds  of 
British  America  must  be  but  a  savage  after  all. 

"Very  well;  I  wouldn't  throw  myself  out  of  a 
place,  if  I  were  you." 

"  Oh,  no,  sir !     Beg  pardon,  sir ;  I " 

"  Attend  to  your  hounds  there,  Lugley." 

So  saying,  Gaston  nodded  Jacques  away  with  him, 
leaving  the  huntsman  sick  with  apprehension. 


66  THE  TRESPASSER. 

"  You  see  how  it  is  to  be  done,  Brillon  ? "  said 
Gaston. 

Jacques'  brown  eyes  twinkled. 

"  You  have  the  grand  trick,  sir." 

"  I  enjoy  the  game ;  and  so  shall  you,  if  you  will. 
You've  begun  well.  I  don't  know  much  of  this 
life  yet ;  but  it  seems  to  me  that  they  are  all  part  of  a 
machine,  not  the  idea  behind  the  machine.  They 
have  no  invention.  Their  machine  is  easy  to  learn. 
Do  not  pretend;  but  for  every  bit  you  learn  show 
something  better,  something  to  make  them  dizzy  now 
and  then." 

He  paused  on  a  knoll  and  looked  down.  The 
castle,  the  stables,  the  cottages  of  labourers  and  vil- 
lagers lay  before  them.  In  a  certain  highly-cultivated 
field,  men  were  working.  It  was  cut  off  in  squares  and 
patches.  It  had  an  air  which  struck  Gaston  as  un- 
usual ;  why,  he  could  not  tell.  But  he  had  a  strange 
divining  instinct,  or  whatever  it  may  be  called.  He 
made  for  the  field  and  questioned  the  workmen. 

The  field  was  cut  up  into  allotment  gardens. 
Here,  at  a  nominal  rent,  the  cottager  could  grow  his 
vegetables  ;  a  little  spot  of  the  great  acre  of  England, 
which  gave  the  labourer  a  tiny  sense  of  ownership,  of 
manhood.  Gaston  was  interested.  More,  he  was  de- 
termined to  carry  that  experiment  further,  if  he  ever 
got  the  chance.  There  was  no  socialism  in  him.  The 
true  barbarian  is  like  the  true  aristocrat:  more  a 


AN  HOUR  WITH  HIS  FATHER'S  PAST.        67 

giver  of  gifts  than  a  lover  of  co-operation ;  concerning 
ownership  by  right  of  power  and  superior  independ- 
ence, hereditary  or  otherwise.  Graston  was  both  bar- 
barian and  aristocrat. 

"  Brillon,"  he  said,  as  they  walked  on,  "  do  you 
think  they  would  be  happier  on  the  prairies  with  a 
hundred  acres  of  land,  horses,  cows,  and  a  pen  of 
pigs?" 

"  Can  I  be  happy  here  all  at  once,  sir  ?  " 
"That's  just  it.  It's  too  late  for  them.  They 
couldn't  grasp  it  unless  they  went  when  they  were 
youngsters.  They'd  long  for  'Home  and  Old  Eng- 
land '  and  this  grub-and-grind  life.  God  in  heaven, 
look  at  them — crumpled-up  creatures  !  And  I'll  stake 
my  life,  they  were  as  pretty  children  as  you'd  care  to 
see.  They  are  out  of  place  in  the  landscape,  Brillon ; 
for  it  is  all  luxury  and  lush,  and  they  are  crumples — 
crumples !  But  yet  there  isn't  any  use  being  sorry 
for  them,  for  they  don't  grasp  anything  outside  the 
life  they  are  living.  Can't  you  guess  how  they  live  ? — 
Look  at  the  doors  of  the  houses  shut,  and  the  win- 
dows sealed ;  yet  they've  been  up  these  three  hours ! 
And  they'll  suck  in  bad  air,  and  bad  food ;  and  they'll 
get  cancer,  and  all  that ;  and  they'll  die,  and  be  trotted 
away  to  the  graveyard  for  <  passun '  to  hurry  them 
into  their  little  dark  cots,  in  the  blessed  hope  of  ever- 
lasting life  !  I'm  going  to  know  this  thing,  Brillon, 
from  tooth  to  ham-string ;  and,  however  it  goes,  we'll 


68  THE  TRESPASSER. 

have  lived  up  and  down  the  whole  scale,  and  that's 
something ! " 

He  suddenly  stopped,  and  then  added  : 

"  I'm  likely  to  go  pretty  far  in  this.  I  can't  tell 
how  or  why,  but  it's  so.  Now,  once  more,  as  yester- 
day afternoon,  for  good  or  for  bad,  for  long  or  for 
short,  for  the  gods  or  for  the  devil,  are  you  with  me  ? 
There's  time  to  turn  back  even  yet,  and  I'll  say  no 
word  to  your  going." 

"  Mon  Dieu  !  a  vow  is  a  vow.  When  I  cannot  run 
I  will  walk,  when  I  cannot  walk  I  will  crawl  after  you 
— comme  pa!" 

Lady  Belward  did  not  appear  at  breakfast.  Sir 
William  and  Gaston  breakfasted  alone  at  half-past 
nine  o'clock.  The  talk  was  of  the  stables  and  the 
estate  generally. 

The  breakfast-room  looked  out  on  a  soft  lawn, 
stretching  away  into  a  broad  park,  through  which  a 
stream  ran ;  and  beyond  was  a  green  hill-side.  The 
quiet,  the  perfect  order  and  discipline,  gave  a  pleasant 
tingle  to  Gaston's  veins.  It  was  all  so  easy,  and  yet 
so  admirable — elegance  without  weight.  He  felt  at 
home.  He  was  not  certain  of  some  trifles  of  etiquette ; 
but  he  and  Sir  William  were  alone,  and  he  followed 
his  instincts.  Once  he  frankly  asked  his  grandfather 
of  a  matter  of  form,  of  which  he  was  uncertain  the 
evening  before.  The  thing  was  done  so  naturally 
that  the  conventional  mind  of  the  baronet  was  not 


AN  HOUR  WITH  HIS  FATHER'S  PAST.        69 

disturbed.  The  Belwards  were  notable  for  their 
brains,  and  Sir  William  saw  that  the  young  man  had 
an  unusual  share.  He  also  felt  that  this  startling  in- 
dividuality might  make  a  hazardous  future ;  but  he 
liked  the  fellow,  and  he  had  a  debt  to  pay  to  the  son 
of  his  own  dead  son.  Of  course,  if  their  wills  came 
into  conflict,  there  could  be  but  one  thing — the  young 
man  must  yield ;  or,  if  he  played  the  fool,  there  must 
be  an  end.  Still,  he  hoped  the  best.  When  break- 
fast was  finished,  he  proposed  going  to  the  library. 

There  Sir  William  talked  of  the  future,  asked 
what  Gaston's  ideas  were,  and  questioned  him  as  to 
his  present  affairs.  Gaston  frankly  said  that  he 
wanted  to  live  as  his  father  would  have  done,  and  that 
he  had  no  property,  and  no  money  beyond  a  hundred 
pounds,  which  would  last  him  a  couple  of  years  on  the 
prairies,  but  would  be  fleeting  here. 

Sir  William  at  once  said  that  he  would  give  him  a 
liberal  allowance,  with,  of  course,  the  run  of  his  own 
stables  and  their  house  in  town :  and  when  he  mar- 
ried acceptably,  his  allowance  would  be  doubled. 

"And  I  wish  to  say,  Gaston,"  he  added,  "that 
your  uncle  Ian,  though  heir  to  the  title,  does  not 
necessarily  get  the  property,  which  is  not  entailed. 
Upon  that  point  I  need  hardly  say  more.  He  has  dis- 
appointed us.  Through  him  Robert  left  us.  Of  his 
character  I  need  not  speak.  Of  his  ability  the  world 
speaks  variably :  he  is  an  artist.  Of  his  morals  I  need 


70  THE  TRESPASSER. 

only  say  that  they  are  scarcely  those  of  an  English 
gentleman,  though  whether  that  is  because  he  is  an 
artist,  I  cannot  say — I  really  cannot  say.  I  remember 
meeting  a  painter  at  Lord  Dunfolly's, — Dunfolly  is  a 
singular  fellow, — and  he  struck  me  chiefly  as  harm- 
less, distinctly  harmless.  I  could  not  understand 
why  he  was  at  Dunfolly's,  he  seemed  of  so  little  use, 
though  Lady  Malfire,  who  writes  or  something, 
mooned  with  him  a  good  deal.  I  believe  there  was 
some  scandal  or  something  afterwards.  I  really  do 
not  know.  But  you  are  not  a  painter,  and  I  believe 
you  have  character — I  fancy  so." 

"  If  you  mean  that  I  don't  play  fast  and  loose,  sir, 
you  are  right.  What  I  do,  I  do  as  straight  as  a 
needle." 

The  old  man  sighed  carefully. 

"  You  are  very  like  Kobert,  and  yet  there  is  some- 
thing else.  I  don't  know,  I  really  don't  know  what ! " 

"  I  ought  to  have  more  in  me  than  the  rest  of  the 
family,  sir." 

This  was  somewhat  startling.  Sir  William's  fin- 
gers stroked  his  beardless  cheek  uncertainly. 

"  Possibly — possibly." 

"  I've  lived  a  broader  life,  I've  got  wider  standards, 
and  there  are  three  races  at  work  in  me." 

"Quite  so,  quite  so;"  and  Sir  William  fumbled 
among  his  papers  nervously. 

"Sir,"  said   Gaston  suddenly,  "I   told  you  last 


AN  HOUR  WITH  HIS  FATHER'S  PAST.        71 

night  the  honest  story  of  my  life.  I  want  to  start 
fair  and  square.  I  want  the  honest  story  of  my 
father's  life  here;  how  and  why  he  left,  and  what 
these  letters  mean ! " 

He  took  from  his  pocket  the  notes  he  had  found 
the  night  before,  and  handed  them.  Sir  William 
read  them  with  a  disturbed  look,  and  turned  them 
over  and  over.  Gaston  told  where  he  had  found 
them. 

Sir  William  spoke  at  last. 

"  The  main  story  is  simple  enough.  Eobert  was 
extravagant,  and  Ian  was  vicious  and  extravagant 
also.  Both  got  into  trouble.  I  was  younger  then, 
and  severe.  Robert  hid  nothing,  Ian  all  he  could. 
One  day  things  came  to  a  climax.  In  his  wild  way, 
Robert — with  Jock  Lawson — determined  to  rescue  a 
young  man  from  the  officers  of  justice,  and  to  get 
him  out  of  the  country.  There  were  reasons.  He 
was  the  son  of  a  gentleman ;  and,  as  we  discovered 
afterwards,  Robert  had  been  too  intimate  with  the 
wife — his  one  sin  of  the  kind,  I  believe.  Ian  came 
to  know,  and  prevented  the  rescue.  Meanwhile,  Rob- 
ert was  liable  to  the  law  for  the  attempt.  There  was 
a  bitter  scene  here,  and  I  fear  that  my  wife  and  I 
said  hard  things  to  Robert." 

Gaston's  eyes  were  on  Lady  Belward's  portrait. 

"  What  did  my  grandmother  say  ?  " 

There  was  a  pause,  then : 


72  THE  TRESPASSER. 

"  That  she  would  never  call  him  son  again,  I  be- 
lieve; that  the  shadow  of  his  life  would  be  hateful 
to  her  always.  I  tell  you  this  because  I  see  you  look 
at  that  portrait.  What  I  said,  I  think,  was  no  less. 
So,  Robert,  after  a  wild  burst  of  anger,  flung  away 
from  us  out  of  the  house.  His  mother,  suddenly  re- 
penting, ran  to  follow  him,  but  fell  on  the  stone  steps 
at  the  door,  and  became  a  cripple  for  life !  At  first 
she  remained  bitter  against  Robert,  and  at  that  time 
Ian  painted  that  portrait.  It  is  clever,  as  you  may 
see,  and  weird.  But  there  came  a  time  when  she 
kept  it  as  a  reproach  to  herself,  not  Robert.  She  is 
a  good  woman — a  very  good  woman !  I  know  none 
better,  really  no  one !  " 

"What  became  of  the  arrested  man?"  Gaston 
asked  quietly,  with  the  oblique  suggestiveness  of  a 
counsel. 

"  He  died  of  a  broken  blood-vessel  on  the  night 
of  the  intended  rescue,  and  the  matter  was  hushed 
up." 

"  What  became  of  the  wife  ?  " 

"  She  died  also  within  a  year." 

"  Were  there  any  children  ?  " 

"  One— a  girl." 

"Whose  was  the  child?" 

"You  mean ?" 

"The  husband's  or  the  lover's?" 

There  was  a  pause. 


AN  HOUR  WITH  HIS  FATHER'S  PAST.        73 

"  I  cannot  tell  you." 

"  Where  is  the  girl  ?  " 

"  My  son,  do  not  ask  that.  It  can  do  no  good — 
really  no  good." 

"Is  it  not  my  due?" 

"  Do  not  impose  your  due.  Believe  me,  I  know 
best.  If  ever  there  is  need  to  tell  you,  you  shall  be 
told.  Trust  me.  Has  not  the  girl  her  due  also  ?  " 

Gaston's  eyes  held  Sir  William's  a  moment. 

"You  are  right,  sir,"  he  said,  "quite  right.  I 
shall  not  try  to  know.  But  if "  He  paused. 

Sir  William  spoke : 

"  There  is  but  one  person  in  the  world  who  knows 
the  child's  father ;  and  I  could  not  ask  him,  though  I 
have  known  him  long  and  well — indeed,  no  ! " 

"I  do  not  ask  to  understand  more,"  Gaston  re- 
plied. "  I  almost  wish  I  had  known  nothing.  And 
yet  I  will  ask  one  thing :  Is  the  girl  in  comfort  and 
good  surroundings?" 

"  The  best — ah,  yes,  the  very  best." 

There  was  a  pause,  in  which  both  sat  thinking; 
then  Sir  William  wrote  out  a  cheque  and  offered  it, 
with  a  hint  of  emotion.  He  was  recalling  how  he  had 
done  the  same  with  this  boy's  father. 

Gaston  understood.     He  got  up,  and  said  : 

"  Honestly,  sir,  I  don't  know  how  I  shall  turn  out 
here  ;  for,  if  I  don't  like  it,  it  couldn't  hold  me,  or,  if 

it  did,  I  should  probably  make  things  uncomfortable. 
6 


74:  THE  TRESPASSER. 

But  I  think  I  shall  like  it,  and  I  will  do  my  best  to 
make  things  go  well.  Good-morning,  sir." 

With  courteous  attention  Sir  William  let  his  grand- 
son out  of  the  room. 

And  thus  did  a  young  man  begin  his  career  as 
Gaston  Belward,  Gentleman. 


CHAPTER  V. 

WHEREIN  HE   FINDS  HIS  ENEMY. 

How  that  career  was  continued  there  are  many 
histories :  Jock  Lawson's  mother  tells  of  it  in  her 
way,  Mrs.  Gasgoyne  in  hers,  Hovey  in  hers,  Captain 
Maudsley  in  his ;  and  so  on.  Each  looks  at  it  from 
an  individual  standpoint.  But  all  agree  on  two  mat- 
ters :  that  he  did  things  hitherto  unknown  in  the 
country-side ;  and  that  he  was  free  and  affable,  but 
could  pull  one  up  smartly  if  necessary. 

He  would  sit  by  the  hour  and  talk  with  Bimley, 
the  cottager ;  with  Kosher,  the  hotel-keeper,  who 
when  young  had  travelled  far;  with  a  sailor-man, 
home  for  a  holiday,  who  said  he  could  spin  a  tidy 
yarn ;  and  with  Pogan,  the  groom,  who  had  at  last 
won  Saracen's  heart.  But  one  day  when  the  meagre 
village  chemist  saw  him  cracking  jokes  with  Beard 
the  carpenter,  and  sidled  in  with  a  silly  air  of  equality, 
which  was  merely  insolence,  Gaston  softly  dismissed 
him  with  his  ears  tingling.  The  carpenter  proved  his 
right  to  be  a  friend  of  Gaston's  by  not  changing 


76  THE  TRESPASSER. 

countenance  and  by  never  speaking  of  the  thing  after- 
wards. 

His  career  was  interesting  during  the  eighteen 
months  wherein  society  papers  chatted  of  him  amiably 
and  romantically.  He  had  entered  into  the  joys  of 
hunting  with  enthusiasm  and  success,  and  had  made 
a  fast  and  admiring  friend  of  Captain  Maudsley ; 
while  Saracen  held  his  own  grandly.  He  had  dined 
with  county  people,  and  had  dined  them  ;  had  entered 
upon  the  fag-end  of  the  London  season  with  keen, 
amused  enjoyment ;  and  had  engrafted  every  little  use 
of  the  convention.  The  art  was  learned,  but  the  man 
was  always  apart  from  it;  using  it  as  a  toy,  yet  not 
despising  it ;  for,  as  he  said,  it  had  its  points,  it  was 
necessary.  There  was  yachting  in  the  summer ;  but 
he  was  keener  to  know  the  life  of  England  and  his 
heritage  than  to  roam  afar,  and  most  of  the  year  was 
spent  on  the  estate  and  thereabouts  :  with  the  steward, 
with  the  justices  of  the  peace,  in  the  fields,  in  the 
kennels,  among  the  accounts. 

To-day  he  was  in  London,  haunting  Tattersall's, 
the  East  End,  the  docks,  his  club,  the  London  Library 
— he  had  a  taste  for  English  history,  especially  for 
that  of  the  seventeenth  century ;  he  saturated  himself 
with  it :  to-morrow  he  would  present  to  his  grand- 
father a  scheme  for  improving  the  estate  and  benefit- 
ing the  cottagers.  Or  he  would  suddenly  enter  the 
village  school,  and  daze  and  charm  the  children  by 


WHEREIN  HE  FINDS  HIS  ENEMY.  ff 

asking  them  strange  yet  simple  questions,  which  sent 
a  shiver  of  interest  to  their  faces. 

One  day  at  the  close  of  his  second  hunting-season 
there  was  to  be  a  ball  at  the  Court,  the  first  public 
declaration  of  acceptance  by  his  people;  for,  at  his 
wish,  they  did  not  entertain  for  him  in  town  the  pre- 
vious season — Lady  Belward  had  not  lived  in  town  for 
years.  But  all  had  gone  so  well, — if  not  with  absolute 
smoothness,  and  with  some  strangeness, — that  Gaston 
had  become  an  integral  part  of  their  life,  and  they  had 
ceased  to  look  for  anything  sensational. 

This  ball  was  to  be  the  seal  of  their  approval.  It 
had  been  mentioned  in  Truth  with  that  freshness  and 
point  all  its  own.  What  character  than  GastonV 
could  more  appeal  to  its  naive  imagination  ?  It  said 
in  a  piquant  note  that  he  did  not  wear  a  dagger  and 
sombrero. 

Everything  was  ready.  Decorations  were  up,  the 
cook  and  the  butler  had  done  their  parts.  At  eleven 
in  the  morning  Gaston  had  time  on  his  hands.  Walk- 
ing out,  he  saw  two  or  three  children  peeping  in  at 
the  gateway. 

He  would  visit  the  village  school.  He  found  the 
junior  curate  troubling  the  youthful  mind  with  what 
their  godfathers  and  godmothers  did  for  them,  and 
begging  them  to  do  their  duty  "  in  that  state  of  life," 
etc.  He  listened,  wondering  at  the  pious  opacity,  and 
presently  asked  the  children  to  sing.  With  inimita- 


78  THE  TRESPASSER. 

ble  melancholy  they  sang,  "  Oh,  the  Roast  Beef  of  Old 
England!" 

Gaston  sat  back  and  laughed  softly  till  the  curate 
felt  uneasy,  till  the  children,  waking  to  his  humour, 
gurgled  a  little  in  the  song.  With  his  thumbs  caught 
lightly  in  his  waistcoat  pockets,  he  presently  began  to 
talk  with  the  children  in  an  easy,  quiet  voice.  He 
asked  them  little  out-of-the-way  questions,  he  lifted 
the  school-room  from  their  minds,  and  then  he  told 
them  a  story,  showing  them  on  the  map  where  the 
place  was,  giving  them  distances,  the  kind  of  climate, 
and  a  dozen  other  matters  of  information,  without  the 
nature  of  a  lesson.  Then  he  taught  them  the  chorus 
• — the  Board  forbade  it  afterwards — of  a  negro  song, 
which  told  how  those  who  behaved  themselves  well  in 
this  world  should  ultimately, 

"  Blow  on,  blow  on,  blow  on  dat  silver  horn ! " 

It  was  on  this  day  that,  as  he  left  the  school,  he 
saw  Ian  Belward  driving  past.  He  had  not  met  his 
uncle  since  his  arrival, — the  artist  had  been  in  Mo- 
rocco,— nor  had  he  heard  of  him  save  through  a  note 
in  a  newspaper  which  said  that  he  was  giving  no  pow- 
erful work  to  the  world,  nor,  indeed,  had  done  so  for 
several  years ;  and  that  he  preferred  the  purlieus  of 
Montparnasse  to  Holland  Park. 

They  recognised  each  other.  Ian  looked  his 
nephew  up  and  down  with  a  cool  kind  of  insolence 


WHEREIN  HE  FINDS  HIS  ENEMY.  79 

as  he  passed,  but  did  not  make  any  salutation.  Gas- 
ton  went  straight  to  the  castle.  He  asked  for  his 
uncle,  and  was  told  that  he  had  gone  to  Lady  Bel- 
ward.  He  wandered  to  the  library:  it  was  empty. 
He  lit  a  cigar,  took  down  a  copy  of  Matthew  Arnold's 
poems,  opening  at  "  Sohrab  and  Kustum,"  read  it  with 
a  quick-beating  heart,  and  then  came  to  "  Tristram 
and  Iseult."  He  knew  little  of  "  that  Arthur "  and 
his  knights  of  the  Round  Table,  and  Iseult  of  Brit- 
tany was  a  new  figure  of  romance  to  him.  In  Tenny- 
son, he  had  got  no  further  than  "Locksley  Hall," 
which,  he  said,  had  a  right  tune  and  wrong  words ; 
and  "  Maud,"  which  "  was  big  in  pathos."  The  story 
and  the  metre  of  "  Tristram  and  Iseult "  beat  in  his 
veins.  He  got  to  his  feet,  and,  standing  before  the 
window,  repeated  a  verse  aloud  : 

"  Cheer,  cheer  thy  dogs  into  the  brake, 
0  hunter !  and  without  a  fear 
Thy  golden-tassell'd  bugle  blow, 
And  through  the  glades  thy  pasture  take — 
For  thou  wilt  rouse  no  sleepers  here  I 
For  these  thou  seest  are  unmoved ; 
Cold,  cold  as  those  who  lived  and  loved 
A  thousand  years  ago." 

He  was  so  engrossed  that  he  did  not  hear  the  door 
open.  He  again  repeated  the  lines  with  the  affection- 
ate modulation  of  a  musician.  He  knew  that  they 
were  right.  They  were  hot  with  life — a  life  that  was 
no  more  a  part  of  this  peaceful  landscape  than  a  palm- 


80  THE  TRESPASSER. 

tree  would  be.  He  felt  that  he  ought  to  read  the 
poem  in  a  desert,  out  by  the  Polar  Sea,  down  on  the 
Amazon,  yonder  at  Nukualofa;  that  it  would  fit  in 
with  bearding  the  Spaniards  two  hundred  years  ago ! 
Bearding  the  Spaniards  ! — What  did  he  mean  by  that  ? 
He  shut  his  eyes  and  saw  a  picture  :  A  Moorish  castle, 
men  firing  from  the  battlements  under  a  blazing  sun, 
a  multitude  of  troops  before  a  tall  splendid -looking 
man,  in  armour  chased  with  gold  and  silver,  and  fine 
ribbons  flying.  A  woman  was  lifted  upon  the  battle- 
ments. He  saw  the  gold  of  her  necklace  shake  on 
her  flesh  like  sunlight  on  little  waves.  He  heard  a 
cry 

At  that  moment  someone  said  behind  him : 

"  You  have  your  father's  romantic  manner." 

He  quietly  put  down  the  book,  and  met  the  other's 
eyes  with  a  steady  directness. 

"  Your  memory  is  good,  sir." 

"  Less  than  thirty  years — h'm,  not  so  very  long ! " 

"  Looking  back — no.  You  are  my  father's  brother, 
lanBelward?" 

"  Your  uncle  Ian." 

There  was  a  kind  of  quizzical  loftiness  in  Ian  Bel- 
ward's  manner. 

"  Well,  Uncle  Ian,  my  father  asked  me  to  say  that 
he  hoped  you  would  get  as  much  out  of  life  as  he  had, 
and  that  you  would  leave  it  as  honest." 

"  Thank  you.    That  is  very  like  Robert.     He  loved 


WHEREIN  HE  FINDS  HIS  ENEMY.  81 

making  little  speeches.  It  is  a  pity  we  did  not  pull 
together ;  but  I  was  hasty,  and  he  was  rash.  He  had 
a  foolish  career,  and  you  are  the  result.  My  mother 
has  told  me  the  story— his  and  yours." 

He  sat  down,  ran  his  fingers  through  his  grey- 
brown  hair,  and  looking  into  a  mirror,  adjusted  the 
bow  of  his  tie,  and  flipped  the  flying  ends.  The  kind 
of  man  was  new  to  Gaston :  self-indulgent,  intelli- 
gent, heavily  nourished,  nonchalant,  with  a  coarse 
kind  of  handsomeness.  He  felt  that  here  was  a 
man  of  the  world,  equipped  mentally  cap-a-pie,  as 
keen  as  cruel.  Beading  that  in  the  light  of  the  past, 
he  was  ready. 

"  And  yet  his  rashness  will  hurt  you  longer  than 
your  haste  hurt  him  ! " 

The  artist  took  the  hint  bravely. 

"  That  you  will  have  the  estate,  and  I  the  title,  eh  ? 
Well,  that  looks  likely  just  now ;  but  I  doubt  it  all 
the  same.  You'll  mess  the  thing  one  way  or  an- 
other." 

He  turned  from  the  contemplation  of  himself,  and 
eyed  Gaston  lazily.  Suddenly  he  started. 

"  Begad,"  he  said,  "  where  did  you  get  it? " 

He  rose. 

Gaston  understood  that  he  saw  the  resemblance  to 
Sir  Gaston  Belward. 

"Before  you  were,  I  am.  I  am  nearer  the  real 
stuff." 


82  THE  TRESPASSER. 

The  other  measured  his  words  insolently : 

"But  the  Pocahontas  soils  the  stream — that's 
plain ! " 

A  moment  after  Gaston  was  beside  the  prostrate 
body  of  his  uncle,  feeling  his  heart. 

"  Good  God,"  he  said,  "  I  didn't  think  I  hit  so 
hard ! " 

He  felt  the  pulse,  looked  at  the  livid  face,  then 
caught  open  the  waistcoat  and  put  his  ear  to  the 
chest.  He  did  it  all  coolly,  though  swiftly — he  was 
born  for  action  and  incident.  And  during  that  mo- 
ment of  suspense  he  thought  of  a  hundred  things, 
chiefly  that,  for  the  sake  of  the  family — the  family ! — 
he  must  not  go  to  trial.  There  were  easier  ways. 

But  presently  he  found  that  the  heart  beat. 

"  Good !  good ! "  he  said,  ^undid  the  collar,  got 
some  water,  and  rang  a  bell.  Falby  came.  Gaston 
ordered  some  brandy,  and  asked  for  Sir  William. 
After  the  brandy  had  been  given,  consciousness  re- 
turned. Gaston  lifted  him  up. 

He  presently  swallowed  more  brandy,  and  while 
yet  his  head  was  at  Gaston's  shoulder,  said : 

"  You  are  a  hard  hitter.  But  you've  certainly  lost 
the  game  now ! " 

Here  he  made  an  effort,  and  with  Gaston's  assist- 
ance got  to  his  feet.  At  that  moment  Falby  entered 
to  say  that  Sir  William  was  not  in  the  house.  With 
a  wave  of  the  hand  Gaston  dismissed  him.  Deathly 


WHEREIN  HE  FINDS  HIS  ENEMY.  83 

pale,  his  uncle  lifted  his  eyebrows  at  the  graceful 
gesture. 

"  You  do  it  fairly,  nephew,"  he  said  ironically  yet 
faintly, — "  fairly  in  such  little  things ;  but  a  gentle- 
man, your  uncle,  your  elder,  with  fists ! — that  smacks 
of  low  company ! " 

Gaston  made  a  frank  reply  as  he  smothered  his 
pride : 

"  I  am  sorry  for  the  blow,  sir ;  but  was  the  fault 
all  mine  ?  " 

"The  fault?  Is  that  the  question?  Faults  and 
manners  are  not  the  same.  At  bottom  you  lack  in 
manners  ;  and  that  will  ruin  you  at  last ! " 

"  You  slighted  my  mother ! " 

"  Oh,  no !  and  if  I  had,  you  should  not  have 
seen  it." 

"  I  am  not  used  to  swallow  insults.  It  is  your  way, 
sir.  I  know  your  dealings  with  my  father ! " 

"A  little  more  brandy,  please.  But  your  father 
had  manners,  after  all.  You  are  as  rash  as  he ;  and 
in  essential  matters  clownish — which  he  was  not." 

Gaston  was  well  in  hand  now,  cooler  even  than  his 
uncle. 

"Perhaps  you  will  sum  up  your  criticism  now, 
sir,  to  save  future  explanation ;  and  then  accept  my 
apology." 

"  To  apologise  for  what  no  gentleman  pardons  or 
does,  or  acknowledges  openly  when  done! — H'm! 


84  THE  TRESPASSER. 

Were  it  not  well  to  pause  in  time,  and  go  back  to 
your  wild  North?  Why  so  difficult  a  saddle — Tar- 
tarin  after  Napoleon  ?  Think — Tartarin's  end ! " 

Gaston  deprecated  with  a  gesture  : 

"  Can  I  do  anything  for  you,  sir  ?" 

His  uncle  now  stood  up,  but  swayed  a  little,  and 
winced  from  sudden  pain.  A  wave  of  malice  crossed 
his  face. 

"  It's  a  pity  we  are  relatives,  with  France  so  near ! " 
he  said,  "  for  I  see  you  love  fighting."  After  an  in- 
stant he  added,  with  a  carelessness  as  much  assumed 
as  natural :  "  You  may  ring  the  bell,  and  tell  Falby 
to  come  to  my  room.  And  because  I  am  to  appear  at 
the  flare-up  to-night — all  in  honour  of  the  prodigal's 
son, — this  matter  is  between  us,  and  we  meet  as  lov- 
ing relatives !  You  understand  my  motives,  Gaston 
Eobert  Belward  ?  " 

"  Thoroughly." 

Gaston  rang  the  bell,  and  went  to  open  the  door 
for  his  uncle  to  pass  out.  Ian  Belward  buttoned  his 
close-fitting  coat,  cast  a  glance  in  the  mirror,  and  then 
eyed  Gaston's  fine  figure  and  well-cut  clothes.  In  the 
presence  of  his  nephew,  there  grew  the  envy  of  a  man 
who  knew  that  youth  was  passing  while  every  hot  in- 
stinct and  passion  remained.  For  his  age  he  was  im- 
possibly young.  Well  past  fifty  he  looked  thirty-five, 
no  more.  His  luxurious  soul  loathed  the  approach  of 
age.  Unlike  many  men  of  indulgent  natures,  he  loved 


WHEREIN  HE  FINDS  HIS  ENEMY.  85 

youth  for  the  sake  of  his  art,  and  he  had  sacrificed 
upon  that  altar  more  than  most  men — sacrificed  oth- 
ers !  His  cruelty  was  not  as  that  of  the  roughs  of 
Seven  Dials  or  Belleville,  but  it  was  pitiless.  He  ad- 
mitted to  those  who  asked  him  why  and  wherefore 
when  his  selfishness  became  brutality,  that  everything 
had  to  give  way  for  his  work.  His  painting  of  Ari- 
adne represented  the  misery  of  two  women's  lives. 
And  of  such  was  his  kingdom  of  Art. 

As  he  now  looked  at  Gaston  he  was  again  struck 
with  the  resemblance  to  the  portrait  in  the  dining- 
room,  with  his  foreign  out-of-the-way  air  :  something 
that  should  be  seen  beneath  the  flowing  wigs  of  the 
Stuart  period.  He  had  long  wanted  to  do  a  statue  of 
the  ill-fated  Monmouth,  and  another  greater  than 
that.  Here  was  the  very  man  :  with  a  proud,  daring, 
homeless  look,  a  splendid  body,  and  a  kind  of  cavalier 
conceit.  It  was  significant  of  him,  of  his  attitude  to- 
wards himself  where  his  work  was  concerned,  that  he 
suddenly  turned  and  shut  the  door  again,  telling  Fal- 
by,  who  appeared,  to  go  to  his  room  ;  and  then  said  : 

"  You  are  my  debtor,  Cadet— I  shall  call  you  that: 
you  shall  have  a  chance  of  paying." 

"  How  ?  " 

In  a  few  concise  words  he  explained,  scanning  the 
other's  face  eagerly. 

Gaston  showed  nothing.  He  had  passed  the  apo- 
gee of  irritation. 


86  THE  TRESPASSER. 

"  A  model  ?  "  he  questioned  drily. 

"  Well,  if  you  put  it  that  way.  '  Portrait '  sounds 
better.  It  shall  be  Gaston  Belward,  gentleman ;  but 
we  will  call  it  in  public,  *  Monmouth  the  Trespasser.' " 

Gaston  did  not  wince.  He  had  taken  all  the  re- 
venge he  needed.  The  idea  rather  pleased  him  than 
otherwise.  He  had  instincts  about  art,  and  he  liked 
pictures,  statuary,  poetry,  romance ;  but  he  had  no 
standards.  He  was  keen  also  to  see  the  life  of  the 
artist,  to  touch  that  aristocracy  more  distinguished  by 
mind  than  manners. 

"  If  that  gives  '  clearance,'  yes.  And  your  debt  to 
me?" 

"  I  owe  you  nothing.  You  find  your  own  mean- 
ing in  my  words.  I  was  railing,  you  were  serious.  Do 
not  be  serious.  Assume  it  sometimes,  if  you  will ;  be 
amusing  mostly.  So,  you  will  let  me  paint  you — on 
your  own  horse,  eh  ?  " 

"  That  is  asking  much.     Where  ?  " 

"  Oh,  a  sketch  here  this  afternoon,  while  the  thing 
is  hot — if  this  damned  headache  stops  !  Then  at  my 
studio  in  London  in  the  spring,  or  " — here  he  laughed 
— "  in  Paris.  I  am  modest,  you  see  ! " 

"  As  you  will." 

Gaston  had  had  a  desire  for  Paris,  and  this  seemed 
to  give  a  cue  for  going.  He  had  tested  London  nearly 
all  round.  He  had  yet  to  be  presented  at  St.  James's, 
and  elected  a  member  of  the  Bachelors  Club.  Cer- 


WHEREIN  HE  FINDS  HIS  ENEMY.  8T 

tainly  he  had  not  visited  the  Tower,  Windsor  Castle, 
and  the  Zoo  ;  but  that  would  only  disqualify  him  in 
the  eyes  of  a  Colonial. 

His  uncle's  face  flushed  slightly.  He  had  not  ex- 
pected such  good  fortune.  He  felt  that  he  could  do 
anything  with  this  romantic  figure.  He  would  do 
two  pictures :  Monmouth,  and  an  ancient  subject — 
that  legend  of  the  ancient  city  of  Ys,  on  the  coast 
of  Brittany.  He  had  had  it  in  his  mind  for  years. 
He  came  back  and  sat  down,  keen,  eager. 

"  I've  a  big  subject  brewing,"  he  said ;  "  better 
than  the  Monmouth,  though  it  is  good  enough  as  I 
shall  handle  it.  It  shall  be  royal,  melancholy,  devil- 
ish :  a  splendid  bastard  with  creation  against  him ; 
the  best,  most  fascinating  subject  in  English  his- 
tory. The  son  dead  on  against  the  father — and  the 
uncle!" 

He  ceased  for  a  minute,  fashioning  the  picture  in 
his  mind  ;  his  face  pale,  but  alive  with  interest,  which 
his  enthusiasm  made  into  dignity.  Then  he  went  on  : 

"  But  the  other :  when  the  king  takes  up  the 
woman — his  mistress — and  rides  into  the  sea  with 
her  on  his  horse,  to  save  the  town !  By  God,  with 
you  to  sit,  it's  my  chance !  You've  got  it  all  there 
in  you — the  immense  manner !  You,  a  nineteenth 
century  gentleman,  to  do  this  game  of  Kidley  Court, 
and  paddle  round  the  Kow  ? — Not  you  !  You're 
clever,  and  you're  crafty,  and  you've  a  way  with  you ! 


88  THE  TRESPASSER. 

But  you'll  come  a  cropper  at  this  as  sure  as  I  shall 
paint  two  big  pictures — if  you'll  stand  to  your 
word ! " 

"  We  need  not  discuss  my  position  here.  I  am 
in  my  proper  place — in  my  father's  home.  But  for 
the  paintings  and  Paris,  as  you  please  ! " 

"  That  is  sensible — Paris  is  sensible ;  for  you  ought 
to  see  it  right,  and  I'll  show  you  what  half  the  world 
never  see,  and  wouldn't  appreciate  if  they  did.  You've 
got  that  old,  barbaric  taste,  romance,  and  you'll  find 
your  metier  in  Paris." 

Gaston  now  knew  the  most  interesting  side  of  his 
uncle's  character, — which  few  people  ever  saw,  and 
they  mostly  women  who  came  to  wish  they  had  never 
felt  the  force  of  that  occasional  enthusiasm.  He  had 
been  in  the  National  Gallery  several  times,  and  over 
and  over  again  he  had  visited  the  picture  places  in 
Bond  Street  as  he  passed ;  but  he  wanted  to  get  be- 
hind art  life,  to  dig  out  the  heart  of  it. 


CHAPTEK  VI. 

WHICH   TELLS   OF   STKANGE   ENCOUNTEBS. 

A  FEW  hours  afterwards  Gaston  sat  on  his  horse, 
in  a  quiet  corner  of  the  grounds,  while  his  uncle 
sketched  him.  After  a  time  he  said  that  Saracen 
would  remain  quiet  no  longer.  His  uncle  held  up  the 
sketch.  Gaston  could  scarcely  believe  that  so  strong 
and  life-like  a  thing  were  possible  in  the  time.  It  had 
force  and  imagination.  He  left  his  uncle  with  a  nod, 
rode  quietly  through  the  park,  into  the  village,  and  on 
to  the  moor.  At  the  top  he  turned  and  looked  down. 
The  perfectness  of  the  landscape  struck  him ;  it  was 
as  if  the  picture  had  all  grown  there — not  a  suburban 
villa,  not  a  modern  cottage,  not  one  tall  chimney  of  a 
manufactory,  but  just  the  sweet  common  life.  The 
noises  of  the  village  were  soothing,  the  soft  smell  of 
the  woodland  came  over.  He  watched  a  cart  go  by, 
idly  heavily  clacking. 

As  he  looked,  it  came  to  him  :  was  his  uncle  right 
after  all  ?  Was  he  out  of  place  here  ?  He  was  not  a 
part  of  this,  though  he  had  adapted  himself  and  had 
learned  many  fine  social  ways.  He  knew  that  he  Hved 

not  exactly  as  though  born  here  and  grown  up  with 
7 


90  THE  TRESPASSER. 

it  all.  But  it  was  also  true  that  lie  had  a  native  sense 
of  courtesy  which  people  called  distinguished.  There 
was  ever  a  kind  of  mannered  deliberation  in  his  bear- 
ing— a  part  of  his  dramatic  temper,  and  because  his 
father  had  taught  him  dignity  where  there  were  no 
social  functions  for  its  use.  His  manner  had,  there- 
fore, a  carefulness  which  in  him  was  elegant  artifice. 

It  could  not  be  complained  that  he  did  not  act 
after  the  fashion  of  gentle  people  when  with  them. 
But  it  was  equally  true  that  he  did  many  things  which 
the  friends  of  his  family  could  not  and  would  not  have 
done.  For  instance,  none  would  have  pitched  a  tent 
in  the  grounds,  slept  in  it,  read  in  it,  and  lived  in  it — 
when  it  did  not  rain.  Probably  no  one  of  them  would 
have,  at  individual  expense,  sent  the  wife  of  the  village 
policeman  to  a  hospital  in  London,  to  be  cured — or  to 
die — of  cancer.  None  would  have  troubled  to  insist 
that  a  certain  stagnant  pool  in  the  village  be  filled  up. 
Nor  would  one  have  suddenly  risen  in  court  and  have 
acted  as  counsel  for  a  gipsy !  At  the  same  time,  all 
were  too  well-bred  to  think  that  Gaston  did  this  be- 
cause the  gipsy  had  a  daughter  with  him,  a  girl  of 
strong,  wild  beauty,  with  a  look  of  superiority  over  her 
position. 

He  thought  of  all  the  circumstances  now. 

It  was  very  many  months  ago.  The  man  had  been 
accused  of  stealing  and  assault,  but  the  evidence  was 


WHICH  TELLS  OF  STRANGE  ENCOUNTERS.     91 

unconvincing  to  Gaston.  The  feeling  in  court  was 
against  the  gipsy.  Fearing  a  verdict  against  him, 
Gaston  rose  and  cross-examined  the  witnesses,  and  so 
adroitly  bewildered  both  them  and  the  justices  who  sat 
with  his  grandfather  on  the  case,  that,  at  last,  he  se- 
cured the  man's  freedom.  The  girl  was  French,  and 
knew  English  imperfectly.  Gaston  had  her  sworn, 
and  made  the  most  of  her  evidence.  Then,  learning 
that  an  assault  had  been  made  on  the  gipsy's  van  by 
some  lads  who  worked  at  mills  in  a  neighbouring  town, 
he  pushed  for  their  arrest,  and  himself  made  up  the 
loss  to  the  gipsy. 

It  is  possible  that  there  was  in  the  mind  of  the  girl 
what  some  common  people  thought :  that  the  thing  was 
done  for  her  favour  ;  for  she  viewed  it  half  gratefully, 
half  frowningly,  till,  on  the  village  green,  Gaston  asked 
her  father  what  he  wished  to  do — push  on  or  remain 
to  act  against  the  lads. 

The  gipsy,  angry  as  he  was,  wished  to  move  on. 
Gaston  lifted  his  hat  to  the  girl  and  bade  her  good- 
bye. Then  she  saw  that  his  motives  had  been  wholly 
unselfish  —  even  quixotic,  as  it  appeared  to  her, — 
silly,  she  would  have  called  it,  if  silliness  had  not 
seemed  unlikely  in  him.  She  had  never  met  a 
man  like  him  before.  She  ran  her  fingers  through 
her  golden-brown  hair  nervously,  caught  at  a  fly- 
ing bit  of  old  ribbon  at  her  waist,  and  said  in 
French : 


92  THE  TRESPASSER. 

"  He  is  honest  altogether,  sir.  He  did  not  steal, 
and  he  was  not  there  when  it  happened." 

"  Oh,  I  know  that,  my  girl.  That  is  why  I  did 
it!" 

She  looked  at  him  keenly.  Her  eyes  ran  up  and 
down  his  figure,  then  met  his  curiously.  Their  looks 
swam  for  a  moment.  Something  thrilled  in  them  both. 
The  girl  took  a  step  nearer. 

"  You  are  as  much  a  Romany  here  as  I  am,"  she 
said,  touching  her  bosom  with  a  quick  gesture.  "  You 
do  not  belong ;  you  are  too  good  for  it.  How  do  I 
know  ?  I  do  not  know ;  I  feel.  I  will  tell  your  for- 
tune," she  suddenly  added,  reaching  for  his  hand.  "  I 
have  only  known  three  that  I  could  do  it  with  honestly 
and  truly,  and  you  are  one.  It  is  no  lie.  There  is 
something  in  it.  My  mother  had  it ;  but  it's  all  sham 
mostly." 

Then,  under  a  tree  on  the  green,  he  indifferent  to 
village  gossip,  she  took  his  hand  and  told  him — not  of 
his  fortune  alone.  In  half-coherent  fashion  she  told 
him  of  the  past — of  his  life  in  the  North.  She  then 
spoke  of  his  future.  She  told  him  of  a  woman,  of 
another,  and  another  still ;  of  an  accident  at  sea,  and 
of  a  quarrel ;  then,  with  a  low,  wild  laugh,  she  stopped, 
let  go  his  hand,  and  would  say  no  more.  But  her  face 
was  all  flushed,  and  her  eyes  like  burning  beads.  Her 
father  stood  near,  listening.  Now  he  took  her  by  the 
arm. 


WHICH  TELLS  OF  STRANGE  ENCOUNTERS.     93 

"  Here,  Andree,  that's  enough,"  he  said,  with  rough 
kindness ;  "  it's  no  good  for  you  or  him." 

He  turned  to  Gaston,  and  said  in  English : 

"  She's  sing'lar,  like  her  mother  afore  her.  But 
she's  straight ! " 

Gaston  lit  a  cigar. 

"  Of  course."  He  looked  kindly  at  the  girl.  "  You 
are  a  weird  sort,  Andree,  and  perhaps  you  are  right 
that  I'm  a  Romany  too ;  but  I  don't  know  where  it 
begins  and  where  it  ends. — You  are  not  English  gip- 
sies ?  "  he  added,  to  the  father. 

"I  lived  in  England  when  I  was  young.  Her 
mother  was  a  Breton — not  a  Romany.  We're  on  the 
way  to  France  now.  She  wants  to  see  where  her 
mother  was  born.  She's  got  the  Breton  lingo,  and 
she  knows  some  English;  but  she  speaks  French 
mostly." 

"  Well,  well,"  rejoined  Gaston ;  "  take  care  of  your- 
self, and  good  luck  to  you.  Good-bye — good-bye,  An- 
dree." 

He  put  his  hand  in  his  pocket  to  give  her  some 
money,  but  changed  his  mind.  Her  eye  stopped  him. 
He  shook  hands  with  the  man,  then  turned  to  her 
again.  Her  eyes  were  on  him — hot,  shining.  He  felt 
his  blood  throb,  but  he  returned  the  look  with  good- 
natured  nonchalance,  shook  her  hand,  raised  his  hat, 
and  walked  away,  thinking  what  a  fine,  handsome 
creature  she  was.  Presently  he  said :  "  Poor  girl ! 


94  THE  TRESPASSER. 

she'll  look  at  some  fellow  like  that  one  day,  with 
tragedy  the  end  thereof ! " 

He  then  fell  to  wondering  about  her  almost  un- 
canny divination.  He  knew  that  all  his  life  he  him- 
self had  had  strange  memories,  as  well  as  certain 
peculiar  powers  which  had  put  the  honest  phenomena 
and  the  trickery  of  the  Medicine  Men  in  the  shade. 
He  had  influenced  people  by  the  sheer  force  of  pres- 
ence. As  he  walked  on,  he  came  to  a  group  of  trees 
in  the  middle  of  the  common.  He  paused  for  a  mo- 
ment, and  looked  back.  The  gipsy's  van  was  moving 
away,  and  in  the  doorway  stood  the  girl,  her  hand 
over  her  eyes,  looking  towards  him.  He  could  see 
the  raw  colour  of  her  scarf.  "  She'll  make  wild  trou- 
ble ! "  he  said  to  himself. 

As  Gaston  thought  of  this  event,  he  moved  his 
horse  slowly  towards  a  combe,  and  looked  out  over  a 
noble  expanse — valley,  field,  stream,  and  church-spire. 
As  he  gazed,  he  saw  seated  at  some  distance  a  girl 
reading.  Not  far  from  her  were  two  boys  climbing 
up  and  down  the  combe.  He  watched  them.  Pres- 
ently he  saw  one  boy  creep  along  a  shelf  of  rock 
where  the  combe  broke  into  a  quarry,  let  himself 
drop  upon  another  shelf  below,  and  then  perch  upon 
an  overhanging  ledge.  He  presently  saw  that  the  lad 
was  now  afraid  to  return.  He  heard  the  other  lad 
cry  out,  saw  the  girl  start  up,  and  run  forward,  look 


WHICH  TELLS  OP  STRANGE  ENCOUNTERS.     95 

over  the  edge  of  the  combe,  and  then  make  as  if  to 
go  down.  He  set  his  horse  to  the  gallop,  and  called 
out.  The  girl  saw  him,  and  paused.  In  two  minutes 
he  was  off  his  horse  and  heside  her. 

It  was  Alice  Wingfield.  She  had  brought  out 
three  boys,  who  had  come  with  her  from  London, 
where  she  had  spent  most  of  the  year  nursing  their 
sick  mother,  her  relative. 

"I'll  have  him  up  in  a  minute,"  he  said,  as  he 
led  Saracen  to  a  sapling  near.  "  Don't  go  near  the 
horse." 

He  swung  himself  down  from  ledge  to  ledge,  and 
soon  was  beside  the  boy.  In  another  moment  he  had 
the  youngster  on  his  back,  came  slowly  up,  and  the 
adventurer  was  safe. 

"  Silly  Walter,"  the  girl  said,  "  to  frighten  your- 
self and  give  Mr.  Belward  trouble  ! " 

"  I  didn't  think  I'd  be  afraid,"  protested  the  lad ; 
"  but  when  I  looked  over  the  ledge  my  head  went 
round,  and  I  felt  sick  like  with  the  channel." 

Gaston  had  seen  Alice  Wingfield  several  times  at 
church  and  in  the  village,  and  once  when,  with  Lady 
Belward,  he  had  returned  the  archdeacon's  call ;  but 
she  had  been  away  most  of  the  time  since  his  arrival. 
She  had  impressed  him  as  a  gentle,  wise,  elderly  little 
creature,  who  appeared  to  live  for  others,  and  chiefly 
for  her  grandfather.  She  was  not  unusually  pretty, 
nor  yet  young, — quite  as  old  as  himself, — and  yet  he 


96  THE  TRESPASSER. 

wondered  what  it  was  that  made  her  so  interesting. 
He  decided  that  it  was  the  honesty  of  her  nature,  her 
beautiful  thoroughness;  and  then  he  thought  little 
more  about  her.  But  now  he  dropped  into  quiet, 
natural  talk  with  her,  as  if  they  had  known  each 
other  for  years.  But  most  women  found  that  they 
dropped  quickly  into  easy  talk  with  him.  That  was 
because  he  had  not  learned  the  small  gossip  which 
varies  little  with  a  thousand  people  in  the  same  cir- 
cumstances. But  he  had  a  nai've  fresh  sense,  every- 
thing interested  him,  and  he  said  what  he  thought 
with  taste  and  tact,  sometimes  with  wit,  and  always  in 
that  cheerful  contemplative  mood  which  influences 
women.  Some  of  his  sayings  were  so  startling  and 
heretical  that  they  had  gone  the  rounds,  and  cer- 
tain crisp  words  out  of  the  argot  of  the  North 
were  used  by  women  who  wished  to  be  chic  and 
amusing. 

Not  quite  certain  why  he  stayed,  but  talking  on 
reflectively,  Gaston  at  last  said  : 

"  You  will  be  coming  to  us  to-night,  of  course  ? 
We  are  having  a  barbecue  of  some  kind." 

"  Yes,  I  hope  so ;  though  my  grandfather  does  not 
much  care  to  have  me  go." 

"  I  suppose  it  is  dull  for  him." 

"  Oh,  I  am  not  sure  it  is  that." 

"No?    What  then?" 

She  shook  her  head. 


WHICH  TELLS  OF  STRANGE  ENCOUNTERS.     9f 

"  The  affair  is  in  your  honour,  Mr.  Belward,  isn't 
it?" 

"  Does  that  answer  my  question  ?  "  he  asked  gen- 
ially. 

She  blushed. 

"  Oh,  no,  no  !    That  is  not  what  I  meant." 

"I  was  unfair.  Yes,  I  believe  the  matter  does 
take  that  colour;  though  why,  I  don't  know." 

She  looked  at  him  with  simple  earnestness. 

"  You  ought  to  be  proud  of  it ;  and  you  ought  to 
be  glad  of  such  a  high  position  where  you  can  do  so 
much  good,  if  you  will." 

He  smiled,  and  ran  his  hand  down  his  horse's  leg 
musingly  before  he  replied : 

"  I've  not  thought  much  of  doing  good,  I  tell  you 
frankly.  I  wasn't  brought  up  to  think  about  it;  I 
don't  know  that  I  ever  did  any  good  in  my  life.  I 
supposed  it  was  only  missionaries  and  women  who  did 
that  sort  of  thing." 

"  Oh,  you  wrong  yourself.  You  have  done  good 
in  this  village.  Why,  we  all  have  talked  of  it ;  and 
though  it  wasn't  done  in  the  usual  way — rather  ir- 
regularly— still  it  was  doing  good." 

He  looked  down  at  her  astonished. 

"  Well,  here's  a  pretty  libel !  Doing  good  « irregu- 
larly ' !  Why,  where  have  I  done  good  at  all  ?  " 

She  ran  over  the  names  of  several  sick  people  in 
the  village  whose  bills  he  had  paid,  the  personal  help 


98  THE  TRESPASSER. 

and  interest  he  had  given  to  many,  and,  last  of  all, 
she  mentioned  the  case  of  the  village  postmaster. 

Since  Gaston  had  come,  postmasters  had  been 
changed.  The  little  pale-faced  man  who  had  first 
held  the  position  disappeared  one  night,  and  in 
another  twenty-four  hours  a  new  one  was  in  his  place. 
Many  stories  had  gone  about.  It  was  rumoured  that 
the  little  man  was  short  in  his  accounts,  and  had  been 
got  out  of  the  way  by  Gaston  Belward.  Archdeacon 
Varcoe  knew  the  truth,  and  had  said  that  Gaston's 
sin  was  not  unpardonable,  in  spite  of  a  few  so^ires 
and  their  dames  who  declared  it  was  shocking  that  a 
man  should  have  such  loose  ideas,  that  no  good  could 
come  to  the  county  from  it,  and  that  he  would  put 
nonsense  into  the  heads  of  the  common  people.  Alice 
Wingfield  was  now  to  hear  Gaston's  view  of  the 
matter. 

"  So  that's  it,  eh  ?  Live  and  let  live  is  doing 
good  ?  In  that  case  it  is  easy  to  be  a  saint.  What 
else  could  a  man  do  ?  You  say  that  I  am  generous — 
How  ?  What  have  I  spent  out  of  my  income  on  these 
lit'tle  things?  My  income! — How  did  I  get  it?  I 
didn't  earn  it ;  neither  did  my  father.  Not  a  stroke 
have  I  done  for  it.  I  sit  high  and  dry  there  in  the 
Court,  they  sit  low  there  in  the  village ;  and  you  know 
how  they  live.  Well,  I  give  away  a  little  money  which 
these  people  and  their  fathers  earned  for  my  father 
and  me ;  and  for  that  you  say  I  am  doing  good,  and 


WHICH  TELLS  OF  STRANGE  ENCOUNTERS.     99 

some  other  people  say  I  am  doing  harm — *  dangerous 
charity,'  and  all  that!  I  say  that  the  little  I  have 
done  is  what  is  always  done  where  man  is  most 
primitive,  by  people  who  never  heard  *  doing  good ' 
preached." 

"  We  must  have  names  for  things,  you  know," 
she  said. 

"  I  suppose  so,  where  morality  and  humanity  have 
to  be  taught  as  Christian  duty,  and  not  as  common 
manhood." 

"  Tell  me,"  she  presently  said,  "  about  Sproule,  the 
postmaster." 

"  Oh,  that?  Well,  I  will.  The  first  time  I  entered 
the  post-office  I  saw  there  was  something  on  the  man's 
mind.  A  youth  of  twenty-three  oughtn't  to  look 
as  he  did — married  only  a  year  or  two  also,  with  a 
pretty  wife  and  child.  I  used  to  talk  to  them  a  good 
deal,  and  one  day  I  said  to  him,  '  You  look  seedy ; 
what's  the  matter  ? '  He  flushed,  and  got  nervous.  I 
made  up  my  mind  it  was  money.  If  I  had  been  here 
longer,  I  should  have  taken  him  aside  and  talked  to 
him  like  a  father.  As  it  was,  things  slid  along.  I 
was  up  in  town,  and  here  and  there.  One  evening  as ' 
I  came  back  from  town  I  saw  a  nasty-looking  Jew 
arrive.  The  little  postmaster  met  him,  and  they  went 
away  together.  He  was  in  the  scoundrel's  hands; 
had  been  betting,  and  had  borrowed  first  from  the 
Jew,  then  from  the  Government.  The  next  evening 


100  THE  TRESPASSER. 

I  was  just  starting  down  to  have  a  talk  with  him, 
when  an  official  came  to  my  grandfather  to  swear  out 
a  warrant.  I  lost  no  time ;  got  my  horse  and  trap, 
went  down  to  the  office,  gave  the  boy  three  minutes 
to  tell  me  the  truth,  and  then  I  sent  him  away. 
I  fixed  it  up  with  the  authorities,  and  the  wife 
and  child  follow  the  youth  to  America  next  week. 
That's  all." 

"  He  deserved  to  get  free,  then  ?  " 

"  He  deserved  to  be  punished,  but  not  as  he  would 
have  been.  There  wasn't  really  a  vicious  spot  in  the 
man.  And  the  wife  and  child ! — What  was  a  little 
justice  to  the  possible  happiness  of  those  three  ?  Dis- 
cretion is  a  part  of  justice,  and  I  used  it,  as  it  is  used 
every  day  in  business  and  judicial  life,  only  we  don't 
see  it.  When  it  gets  public,  why,  someone  gets  blamed. 
In  this  case  I  was  the  target ;  but  I  don't  mind  in  the 
least — not  in  the  least.  ...  Do  you  think  me  very 
startling  or  lawless  ?  " 

"  Never  lawless ;  but  one  could  not  be  quite  sure 
what  you  would  do  in  any  particular  case."  She 
looked  up  at  him  admiringly. 

They  had  not  noticed  the  approach  of  Archdeacon 
Varcoe  till  he  was  very  near  them.  His  face  was 
troubled.  He  had  seen  how  earnest  was  their  conver- 
sation, and  for  some  reason  it  made  him  uneasy.  The 
girl  saw  him  first,  and  ran  to  meet  him.  He  saw  her 
bright  delighted  look,  and  he  sighed  involuntarily. 


WHICH  TELLS  OF  STRANGE  ENCdUOTE)&&  101 

"  Something  has  worried  you,"  she  said  caress- 
ingly. 

Then  she  told  him  of  the  accident,  and  they  all 
turned  and  went  back  towards  the  Court,  Gaston  walk- 
ing his  horse.  Near  the  church  they  met  Sir  William 
and  Lady  Belward.  There  were  salutations,  and 
presently  Gaston  slowly  followed  his  grandfather  and 
grandmother  into  the  courtyard. 

Sir  William,  looking  back,  said  to  his  wife : 

"  Do  you  think  that  Gaston  should  be  told  ?  " 

"  Oh,  no,  no !  there  is  no  danger.  Gaston,  my  dear, 
shall  marry  Delia  Gasgoyne." 

"Shall  marry?  wherefore  'shall'?  Eeally,  I  do 
not  see." 

"  She  likes  him,  she  is  quite  what  we  would  have 
her,  and  he  is  interested  in  her.  Oh,  my  dear,  I  have 
seen — I, have  watched  for  a  year." 

He  put  his  hand  on  hers. 

"  My  wife,  you  are  a  goodly  prophet." 

When  Archdeacon  Varcoe  entered  his  study  on 
returning,  he  sat  down  in  a  chair,  and  brooded  long. 

"  She  must  be  told,"  he  said  at  last,  aloud.  "  Yes, 
yes,  at  once.  God  help  us  both ! " 


CHAPTER  VII. 

WHEREIN   THE    SEAL   OF   HIS   HERITAGE   IS   SET. 

"  SOPHIE,  when  you  talk  with  the  man,  remember 
that  you  are  near  fifty,  and  faded.  Don't  be  senti- 
mental." 

So  said  Mrs.  Gasgoyne  to  Lady  Dargan,  as  they 
saw  Gaston  coming  down  the  ball-room  with  Captain 
Maudsley. 

"  Reine,  you  try  one's  patience.  People  would  say 
you  were  not  quite  disinterested." 

"  You  mean  Delia !  Now,  listen.  I  haven't  any 
wish  but  that  Gaston  Belward  shall  see  Delia  very 
seldom  indeed.  He  will  inherit  the  property  no 
doubt,  and  Sir  William  told  me  that  he  had  settled  a 
decent  fortune  on  him ;  but  for  Delia — no — no — no ! 
Strange,  isn't  it,  when  Lady  Harriet  over  there  aches 
for  him,  Indian  blood  and  all  ?  And  why  ?  Because 
this  is  a  good  property,  and  the  fellow  is  distinguished 
and  romantic-looking :  but  he  is  impossible — perfectly 
impossible !  Every  line  of  his  face  says  shipwreck." 

"  You  are  not  usually  so  prophetic." 

"  Of  course.    But  I  am  prophetic  now,  for  Delia 


THE  SEAL  OF  HIS  HERITAGE  IS  SET.       103 

is  more  than  interested,  silly  chuck!  Did  you  ever 
read  the  story  of  the  other  Gaston — Sir  Gaston — 
whom  this  one  resembles  ?  No  ?  Well,  you  will  find 
it  thinly  disguised  in  The  Knight  of  Five  Joys.  He 
was  killed  at  Naseby,  my  dear;  killed,  not  by  the 
enemy,  but  by  a  page  in  Kupert's  cavalry.  The  page 
was  a  woman!  It's  in  this  one  too.  Indian  and 
French  blood  is  a  sad  tincture.  He  is  not  wicked  at 
heart,  not  at  all ;  but  he  will  do  mad  things  yet,  my 
dear.  For  he'll  tire  of  all  this,  and  then — half- 
mourning  for  someone ! " 

Gaston  enjoyed  talking  with  Mrs.  Gasgoyne  as  to 
no  one  else.  Other  women  often  flattered  him,  she 
never  did.  Frankly,  crisply,  she  told  him  strange' 
truths,  and,  without  mercy,  crumbled  his  wrong  opin- 
ions. He  had  a  sense  of  humour,  and  he  enjoyed  her 
keen  chastening  raillery.  Besides,  her  talk  was  always 
an  education  in  the  fine  lights  and  shadows  of  this 
social  life.  He  came  to  her  now  with  a  smile,  greeted 
her  heartily,  and  then  turned  to  Lady  Dargan.  Cap- 
tain Maudsley  carried  off  Mrs.  Gasgoyne,  and  the 
two  were  left  together — the  second  time  since  the 
evening  of  Gaston's  arrival,  so  many  months  before. 
Lady  Dargan  had  been  abroad,  and  was  just  re- 
turned. 

They  talked  a  little  on  unimportant  things,  and 
presently  Lady  Dargan  said : 

"  Pardon  my  asking,  but  will  you  tell  me  why  you 


104  THE  TRESPASSER. 

wore  a  red  ribbon  in  your  button-hole  the  first  night 
you  came  ?  " 

He  smiled,  and  then  looked  at  her  a  little  curi- 
ously. 

"  My  luggage  had  not  come,  and  I  wore  an  old  suit 
of  my  father's." 

Lady  Dargan  sighed  deeply. 

"  The  last  night  he  was  in  England  he  wore  that 
coat  at  dinner,"  she  murmured. 

"  Pardon  me,  Lady  Dargan :  you  put  that  ribbon 
there?" 

"Yes." 

Her  eyes  were  on  him  with  a  candid  interest  and 
regard. 

"  I  suppose,"  he  went  on,  "  that  his  going  was 
abrupt  to  you  ?  " 

"  Very — very ! "  she  answered. 

She  longed  to  ask  if  his  father  ever  mentioned  her 
name,  but  she  dared  not.  Besides,  as  she  said  to  her- 
self, to  what  good  now  ?  But  she  asked  him  to  tell 
her  something  about  his  father.  He  did  so  quietly, 
picking  out  main  incidents,  and  setting  them  forth, 
as  he  had  the  ability,  with  quiet  dramatic  strength. 
He  had  just  finished  when  Delia  Gasgoyne  came  up 
with  Lord  Dargan. 

Presently  Lord  Dargan  asked  Gaston  if  he 
would  bring  Lady  Dargan  to  the  other  end  of  the 
room,  where  Miss  Gasgoyne  was  to  join  her 


THE  SEAL  OF  HIS  HERITAGE  IS  SET.       105 

mother.  As  they  went,  Lady  Dargan  said  a  little 
breathlessly : 

"  Will  you  do  something  for  me  ?  " 

"  I  would  do  much  for  you,"  was  his  reply,  for  he 
understood ! 

"If  ever  you  need  a  friend,  if  ever  you  are  in 
trouble,  will  you  let  me  know  ?  I  wish  to  take  an 
interest  in  you.  Promise  me." 

"  I  cannot  promise,  Lady  Dargan,"  he  answered, 
"  for  such  trouble  as  I  have  had  before  I  have  had  to 
bear  alone,  and  the  habit  is  fixed,  I  fear.  Still,  I  am 
grateful  to  you  just  the  same,  and  I  shall  never  forget 
it.  But  will  you  tell  me  why  people  regard  me  from 
so  tragical  a  standpoint  ?  " 

"Do  they?" 

"Well,  there's  yourself,  and  there's  Mrs.  Gas- 
goyne,  and  there's  my  uncle  Ian." 

"  Perhaps  we  think  you  may  have  trouble  because 
of  your  uncle  Ian." 

Gaston  shook  his  head  enigmatically,  and  then 
said  ironically : 

"  As  they  would  put  it  in  the  North,  Lady  Dargan, 
He'll  cut  no  figure  in  that  matter.  I  remember  for 
two!" 

"  That  is  right — that  is  right.  Always  think  that 
Ian  Belward  is  bad — bad  at  heart.  He  is  as  fascinat- 
ing as " 

"As  the  Snake?" 


106  THE  TRESPASSER. 

"  — as  the  Snake,  and  as  cruel !  It  is  the  cruelty 
of  wicked  selfishness.  Somehow,  I  forget  that  I  am 
talking  to  his  nephew.  But  we  all  know  Ian  Ed- 
ward— at  least,  all  women  do." 

"  And  at  least  one  man  does,"  he  answered  gravely. 

The  next  minute  Gaston  walked  down  the  room 
with  Delia  Gasgoyne  on  his  arm.  The  girl  delicately 
showed  her  preference,  and  he  was  aware  of  it.  It 
pleased  him — pleased  his  unconscious  egoism.  The 
early  part  of  his  life  had  been  spent  among  Indian 
women,  half-breeds,  and  a  few  dull  French  or  English 
folk,  whose  chief  charm  was  their  interest  in  that  wild, 
free  life,  now  so  distant.  He  had  met  Delia  many 
times  since  his  coming;  and  there  was  that  in  her 
manner, — a  fine  high-bred  quality,  a  sweet  speaking 
reserve — which  interested  him.  He  saw  her  as  the 
best  product  of  this  convention. 

She  was  no  mere  sentimental  girl,  for  she  had 
known  at  least  six  seasons,  and  had  refused  at  least 
six  lovers.  She  had  a  proud  mind,  not  wide,  suited 
to  her  position.  Most  men  had  flattered  her,  had 
yielded  to  her ;  this  man,  either  with  art  or  instinc- 
tively, mastered  her,  secured  her  interest  by  his  person- 
ality. Every  woman  worth  the  having,  down  in  her 
heart,  loves  to  be  mastered:  it  gives  her  a  sense  of 
security,  and  she  likes  to  lean;  for,  strong  as  she 
may  be  at  times,  she  is  often  singularly  weak.  She 
knew  that  her  mother  deprecated  "  that  Belward 


THE  SEAL  OF  HIS  HERITAGE  IS  SET.       107 

enigma,"  but  this  only  sent  her  on  the  dangerous 
way. 

To-night  she  questioned  him  about  his  life,  and 
how  he  should  spend  the  summer.  Idling  in  France, 
he  said.  And  she?  She  was  not  sure;  but  she 
thought  that  she  also  would  be  idling  about  France 
in  her  father's  yacht.  So  they  might  happen  to  meet. 
Meanwhile?  Well,  meanwhile,  there  were  people 
coming  to  stay  at  Peppingham,  their  home.  August 
would  see  that  over.  Then  freedom. 

Was  it  freedom,  to  get  away  from  all  this — from 
England  and  rule  and  measure?  No,  she  did  not 
mean  quite  that.  She  loved  the  life  with  all  its 
rules ;  she  could  not  live  without  it.  She  had  been 
brought  up  to  expect  and  to  do  certain  things.  She 
liked  her  comforts,  her  luxuries,  many  pretty  things 
about  her,  and  days  without  friction.  To  travel? 
Yes,  with  all  modern  comforts,  no  long  stages,  a 
really  good  maid,  and  some  fresh  interesting 
books. 

What  kind  of  books?  Well,  Walter  Pater's  es- 
says ;  "  The  Light  of  Asia  " ;  a  novel  of  that  wicked 
man  Thomas  Hardy ;  and  something  light — "  The  In- 
nocents Abroad  " — witlv  possibly,  a  struggle  through 
De  Musset,  to  keep  up  her  French. 

It  did  not  seem  exciting  to  Gaston,  but  it  did 
sound  honest,  and  it  was  in  the  picture.  He  much 
preferred  Meredith,  and  Swinburne,  and  Dumas, 


108  THE  TRESPASSER. 

and  Hugo ;  but  with  her  he  did  also  like  the  whim- 
sical Mark  Twain. 

He  thought  of  suggestions  that  Lady  Belward  had 
often  thrown  out ;  of  those  many  talks  with  Sir  Wil- 
liam, excellent  friends  as  they  were,  in  which  the  baro- 
net hinted  at  the  security  he  would  feel  if  there  was 

a  second  family  of  Bel  wards.  What  if  he ?  He 

smiled  strangely,  and  shrank. 

Marriage  ?     There  was  the  touchstone. 

After  the  dance,  when  he  was  taking  her  to  her 
mother,  he  saw  a  pale  intense  face  looking  out  to  him 
from  a  row  of  others.  He  smiled,  and  the  smile  that 
came  in  return  was  unlike  any  he  had  ever  seen  Alice 
Wingfield  wear.  He  was  puzzled.  It  flashed  to  him 
strange  pathos,  affection,  and  entreaty.  He  took 
Delia  Gasgoyne  to  her  mother,  talked  to  Lady  Bel- 
ward  a  little,  and  then  went  quietly  back  to  where  he 
had  seen  Alice.  She  was  gone.  Just  then  some  peo- 
ple from  town  came  to  speak  to  him,  and  he  was  de- 
tained. When  he  was  free  he  searched,  but  she  was 
nowhere  to  be  found.  He  went  to  Lady  Belward. 
Yes,  Miss  Wingfield  had  gone.  Lady  Belward  looked 
at  Gaston  anxiously,  and  asked  him  why  he  was 
curious. 

"Because  she's  a  lonely-looking  little  maid,"  he 
said,  "  and  I  wanted  to  be  kind  to  her.  See  didn't 
seem  happy  a  while  ago." 

Lady  Belward  was  reassured. 


THE  SEAL  OF  HIS  HERITAGE  IS  SET.      109 

"  Yes,  she  is  a  sweet  creature,  Gaston,"  she  said, 
and  added :  "  You  are  a  good  boy  to-night,  a  very 
good  host  indeed.  It  is  worth  the  doing,"  she  went 
on,  looking  out  on  the  guests  proudly.  "  I  did  not 
think  I  should  ever  come  to  it  again  with  any  heart, 
but  I  do  it  for  you  gladly.  Now,  away  to  your  duty," 
she  added,  tapping  his  breast  affectionately  with  her 
fan,  "  and  when  everything  is  done,  come  and  take 
me  to  my  boudoir." 

Ian  Belward  passed  Gaston  as  he  went.  He  had 
seen  the  affectionate  passages. 

"  <  For  a  good  boy  ! '  « God  bless  our  Home ! ' "  he 
said,  ironically. 

Gaston  saw  the  mark  of  his  hand  on  his  uncle's 
chin,  and  he  forbore  ironical  reply. 

"The  home  is  worth  the  blessing,"  he  rejoined 
quietly,  and  passed  on. 

Three  hours  later  the  guests  had  all  gone,  and 
Lady  Belward,  leaning  on  her  grandson's  arm,  went 
to  her  boudoir,  while  Ian  and  his  father  sought  the 
library.  Ian  was  going  next  morning.  The  confer- 
ence was  not  likely  to  be  cheerful. 

Inside  her  boudoir,  Lady  Belward  sank  into  a  large 
chair,  and  let  her  head  fall  back  and  her  eyes  close. 
She  motioned  Gaston  to  a  seat.  Taking  one  near,  he 
waited.  After  a  time  she  opened  her  eyes  and  drew 
herself  up. 

"  My  dear,"  she  said,  "  I  wish  to  talk  with  you." 


HO  THE  TRESPASSER. 

"  I  shall  be  very  glad ;  but  isn't  it  late  ?  and  aren't 
you  tired,  grandmother  ?  " 

"  I  shall  sleep  better  after,"  she  responded,  gently. 

She  then  began  to  review  the  past ;  her  own  long 
unhappiness,  Kobert's  silence,  her  uncertainty  as  to  his 
fate,  and  the  after  hopelessness,  made  greater  by  lan's 
conduct.  In  low,  kind  words  she  spoke  of  his  coming 
and  the  renewal  of  her  hopes,  coupled  with  fear  also 
that  he  might  not  fit  in  with  his  new  life,  and — she 
could  say  it  now — do  something  unbearable.  Well,  he 
had  done  nothing  unworthy  of  their  name ;  had  acted, 
on  the  whole,  sensibly ;  and  she  had  not  been  greatly 
surprised  at  certain  little  oddnesses,  such  as  the  tent 
in  the  grounds,  an  impossible  deer-hunt,  and  some 
unusual  village  charities  and  innovations  on  the  estate. 
Nor  did  she  object  to  Brillon,  though  he  had  some- 
times thrown  servants'-hall  into  disorder,  and  had 
caused  the  stablemen  and  the  footmen  to  fight.  His 
ear-rings  and  hair  were  startling,  but  they  were  not 
important. 

G-aston  had  been  admired  by  the  hunting-field, — 
of  which  they  were  glad,  for  it  was  a  test  of  popular- 
ity. She  saw  that  most  people  liked  him.  Lord  Dun- 
folly  and  Admiral  Highburn  were  enthusiastic.  For 
her  own  part,  she  was  proud  and  grateful.  She  could 
enjoy  every  grain  of  comfort  he  gave  them ;  and  she 
was  thankful  to  make  up  to  Eobert's  son  what  Robert 
himself  had  lost — poor  boy — poor  boy  ! 


THE  SEAL  OF  HIS  HERITAGE  IS  SET.       HI 

Her  feelings  were  deep,  strong,  and  sincere.  Her 
grandson  had  come,  strong,  individual,  considerate, 
and  had  moved  the  tender  courses  of  her  nature.  At 
this  moment  Gaston  had  his  first  deep  feeling  of 
responsibility. 

"  My  dear,"  she  said  at  last,  "  people  in  our  position 
have  important  duties.  Here  is  a  large  estate.  Am  I 
not  clear  ?  You  will  never  be  quite  part  of  this  life 
till  you  bring  a  wife  here.  That  will  give  you  a  sense 
of  responsibility.  You  will  wake  up  to  many  things 
then.  Will  you  not  marry  ?  There  is  Delia  Gasgoyne. 
Your  grandfather  and  I  would  be  so  glad !  She  is 
worthy  in  every  way,  and  she  likes  you.  She  is  a  good 
girl.  She  has  never  frittered  her  heart  away;  and 
she  would  make  you  proud  of  her." 

She  reached  out  an  anxious  hand,  and  touched  his 
shoulder.  His  eyes  were  playing  with  the  pattern  of 
the  carpet ;  but  he  slowly  raised  them  to  hers,  and 
looked  for  a  moment  without  speaking.  Suddenly,  in 
spite  of  himself,  he  laughed — laughed  outright,  but 
not  loudly. 

Marriage  ?  Yes,  here  was  the  touchstone.  Marry 
a  girl  whose  family  had  been  notable  for  hundreds  of 
years  ?  For  the  moment  he  did  not  remember  his  own 
family.  This  was  one  of  the  times  when  he  was  only 
conscious  that  he  had  savage  blood,  together  with  a 
strain  of  New  World  French,  and  that  his  life  had  mostly 
been  a  range  of  adventure  and  common  toil.  This 


112  THE  TRESPASSER. 

new  position  was  his  right,  but  there  were  times  when 
it  seemed  to  him  that  he  was  an  impostor ;  others, 
when  he  felt  himself  master  of  it  all,  when  he  even 
had  a  sense  of  superiority, — why  he  could  not  tell; 
but  life  in  this  old  land  of  tradition  and  history  had 
not  its  due  picturesqueness.  With  his  grandmother's 
proposal  there  shot  up  in  him  the  thought  that  for 
him  this  was  absurd.  He  to  pace  the  world  beside 
this  fine  queenly  creature, — Delia  Gasgoyne — carrying 
on  the  traditions  of  the  Belwards !  Was  it,  was  it 
possible  ? 

"  Pardon  me,"  he  said  at  last  gently,  as  he  saw 
Lady  Belward  shrink  and  then  look  curiously  at  him, 
"  something  struck  me,  and  I  couldn't  help  it ! " 

"  Was  what  I  said  at  all  ludicrous  ?  " 

"  Oh  no ;  you  said  what  was  natural  for  you  to  say, 
and  I  thought  what  was  natural  for  me  to  think,  at 
first  blush." 

"  There  is  something  wrong,"  she  urged  fearfully. 
"  Is  there  any  reason  why  you  cannot  marry  ?  Gas- 
,  ton," — she  trembled  towards  him, — "  you  have  not 
deceived  us — you  are  not  married  ?  " 

"  My  wife  is  dead,  as  I  told  you,"  he  answered 
gravely,  musingly. 

"  Tell  me :  there  is  no  woman  who  has  a  claim  on 
you?" 

"  None  that  I  know  of — not  one  !  My  follies  have 
not  run  that  way." 


THE  SEAL  OF  HIS  HERITAGE  IS  SET.      H3 

"  Thank  God  !  Then  there  is  no  reason  why  you 
should  not  marry.  Oh,  when  I  look  at  you  I  am 
proud,  I  am  glad  that  I  live  !  You  bring  my  youth, 
my  son  back ;  and  I  long  for  a  time  when  I  may  clasp 
your  child  in  my  arms,  and  know  that  Robert's  heri- 
tage will  go  on  and  on,  and  that  there  will  be  made 
up  to  him,  somehow,  all  that  he  lost.  Listen :  I  am 
an  old,  crippled,  suffering  woman  ;  I  shall  soon  have 
done  with  all  this  coming  and  going,  and  I  speak  to 
you  out  of  the  wisdom  of  sorrow.  Had  Robert  mar- 
ried, all  would  have  gone  well.  He  did  not :  he  got 
into  trouble,  then  came  lan's  hand  in  it  all ;  and  you 
know  the  end.  I  fear  for  you,  I  do  indeed.  You  will 
have  sore  temptations.  Marry — marry  soon,  and  make 
us  happy." 

He  was  quiet  enough  now.  He  had  seen  the 
grotesque  image,  now  he  was  facing  the  thing  be- 
hind it. 

"  Would  it  please  you  so  very  much  ? "  he  said, 
resting  a  hand  gently  on  hers. 

"  I  wish  to  see  a  child  of  yours  in  my  arms, 
dear." 

"  And  the  woman  you  have  chosen  is  Delia  Gas- 
goyne?" 

"  The  choice  is  for  you ;  but  you  seem  to  like  each 
other,  and  we  care  for  her." 

He  sat  thinking  for  a  time,  then  he  got  up,  and 
said  slowly : 


114  THE  TRESPASSER. 

"  It  shall  be  so,  if  Miss  Gasgoyne  will  have  me. 
And  I  hope  it  may  turn  out  as  you  wish." 

Then  he  stooped  and  kissed  her  on  the  cheek. 
The  proud  woman,  who  had  unbent  little  in  her  life- 
time, whose  eyes  had  looked  out  so  coldly  on  the 
world,  who  felt  for  her  son  Ian  an  almost  impossible 
aversion,  drew  down  his  head  and  kissed  it. 

"  Indian  and  all  ?  "  he  asked,  with  a  quaint  bitter- 
ness. 

"  Everything,  my  dear  !  "  she  answered.  "  God 
bless  you  !  Good-night !  " 

A  few  moments  after,  Gaston  went  to  the  library. 
He  heard  the  voices  of  Sir  William  and  his  uncle. 
He  knocked  and  entered.  Ian,  with  exaggerated 
courtesy,  rose.  Gaston,  with  easy  coolness,  begged 
him  to  sit,  lit  a  cigar,  and  himself  sat. 

"  My  father  has  been  feeding  me  with  raw  truths, 
Cadet,"  said  his  uncle ;  "  and  I've  been  eating  them 
unseasoned.  We  have  not  been,  nor  are  likely  to  be, 
a  happy  family,  unless  in  your  saturnian  reign  we 
learn  to  say,  Pax  voliscum — do  you  know  Latin? 
For  I'm  told  the  money-bags  and  the  stately  pile  are 
for  you.  You  are  to  beget  children  before  the  Lord, 
and  sit  in  the  seat  of  Justice :  'tis  for  me  to  confer 
honour  on  you  all  by  my  genius ! " 

Gaston  sat  very  still,  and,  when  the  speech  was 
ended,  said  tentatively : 

"Why  rob  yourself?" 


THE  SEAL  OF  HIS  HERITAGE  IS  SET.      H5 

"  In  honouring  you  all  ?  " 

"  No,  sir ;  in  not  yourself  having  '  a  saturnian 
reign'!" 

"  You  are  generous." 

"  No :  I  came  here  to  ask  for  a  home,  for  what 
was  mine  through  my  father.  I  ask,  and  want, 
nothing  more — not  even  to  beget  children  before  the 
Lord ! " 

"  How  mellow  the  tongue  !  Well,  Cadet,  I  am  not 
going  to  quarrel.  Here  we  are  with  my  father.  See, 
I  am  willing  to  be  friends.  But  you  mustn't  expect 
that  I  will  not  chasten  your  proud  spirit  now  and 
then.  That  you  need  it,  this  morning  bears  witness." 

Sir  William  glanced  from  one  to  the  other  curious- 
ly. He  was  cold  and  calm,  and  looked  worn.  He  had 
had  a  trying  half -hour  with  his  son,  and  it  had  told 
on  him. 

Gaston  at  once  said  to  his  grandfather : 

"  Of  this  morning,  sir,  I  will  tell  you.     I " 

Ian  interrupted  him. 

"  No,  no ;  that  is  between  us.  Let  us  not  worry 
my  father." 

Sir  William  smiled  ironically. 

"  Your  solicitude  is  refreshing,  Ian." 

"  Late  fruit  is  the  sweetest,  sir." 

Presently  Sir  William  asked  Gaston  the  result  of 
the  talk  with  Lady  Belward.  Gaston  frankly  said 
that  he  was  ready  to  do  as  they  wished.  Sir  William 


116  THE  TRESPASSER. 

then  said  they  had  chosen  this  time  because  Ian  was 
there,  and  it  was  better  to  have  all  open  and  under- 
stood. 

Ian  laughed. 

"Taming  the  barbarian!  How  seriously  you  all 
take  it !  I  am  the  jester  for  the  King.  In  the  days 
of  the  flood  I'll  bring  the  olive  leaf.  You  are  all  in 
the  wash  of  sentiment :  you'll  come  to  the  wicked  un- 
cle one  day  for  common  sense.  But,  never  mind,  Ca- 
det ;  we  are  to  be  friends.  Yes,  really.  I  do  not  fear 
for  my  heritage,  and  you'll  need  a  helping  hand  one 
of  these  days.  Besides,  you  are  an  interesting  fellow. 
So,  if  you  will  put  up  with  my  acid  tongue,  there's  no 
reason  why  we  shouldn't  hit  it  off." 

To  Sir  William's  great  astonishment,  Ian  held  out 
his  hand  with  a  genial  smile,  which  was  tolerably  hon- 
est, for  his  indulgent  nature  was  capable  of  as  great 
geniality  as  incapable  of  high  moral  conceptions. 
Then,  he  had  before  his  eye,  "  Monmouth  "  and  "  The 
King  of  Ys." 

Gaston  took  his  hand,  and  said : 

"  I  have  no  wish  to  be  an  enemy." 

Sir  William  rose,  looking  at  them  both.  He  could 
not  understand  lan's  attitude,  and  he  distrusted. 
Yet  peace  was  better  than  war.  lan's  truce  was  also 
based  on  a  belief  that  Gaston  would  make  skittles  of 
things. 

A  little  while  afterwards  Gaston  sat  in  his  room, 


THE  SEAL  OF  HIS  HERITAGE  IS  SET.      H7 

turning  over  events  in  his  mind.  Time  and  again  his 
thoughts  returned  to  the  one  thing — marriage.  That 
marriage  with  his  Esquimau  wife  had  been  in  one 
sense  none  at  all,  for  the  end  was  sure  from  the  begin- 
ning. It  was  in  keeping  with  his  youth,  the  circum- 
stances, the  life,  it  had  no  responsibilities.  But  this  ? 
To  become  an  integral  part  of  the  life — the  English 
country  gentleman;  to  be  reduced,  diluted,  to  the 
needs  of  the  convention,  and  no  more?  Let  him 
think  of  the  details  : — a  justice  of  the  peace ;  to  sit  on 
a  board  of  directors;  to  be,  perhaps,  Master  of  the 
Hounds;  to  unite  with  the  Bishop  in  restoring  the 
cathedral ;  to  make  an  address  at  the  annual  flower- 
show.  His  wife  to  open  bazaars,  give  tennis-parties, 
and  be  patron  to  the  clergy ;  himself  at  last,  no  doubt, 
to  go  into  Parliament ;  to  feel  the  petty,  or  serious,  re- 
sponsibilities of  a  husband  and  a  landlord.  Monot- 
ony, extreme  decorum,  civility  to  the  world ;  endless 
politeness  to  his  wife;  with  boys  at  Eton  and  girls 
somewhere  else ; — and  the  kind  of  man  he  must  be  to 
do  his  duty  in  all  and  to  all ! 

It  seemed  impossible.  He  rose  and  paced  the 
floor.  Never  till  this  moment  had  the  full  picture  of 
his  new  life  come  close.  He  felt  stifled.  He  put  on 
a  cap,  and,  descending  the  stairs,  went  out  into  the 
courtyard  and  walked  about,  the  cool  air  refreshing 
him.  Gradually  there  settled  upon  him  a  stoic  ac- 
ceptance of  the  conditions.  But  would  it  last  ? 


118  THE  TRESPASSER. 

He  stood  still  and  looked  at  the  pile  of  buildings 
before  him ;  then  he  turned  towards  the  little  church 
close  by,  whose  spire  and  roof  could  be  seen  above  the 
wall.  He  waved  his  hand,  as  when  within  it  on  the 
day  of  his  coming,  and  said  with  irony :  "  Now  for 
the  marriage-linen,  Sir  Gaston  ! " 

He  heard  a  low  knocking  at  the  gate.  He  listened. 
Yes,  there  was  no  mistake.  He  went  to  it,  and  asked 
quietly: 

"  Who  is  there  ?  " 

There  was  no  reply.  Still  the  knocking  went  on. 
He  quietly  opened  the  gate,  and  threw  it  back.  A 
figure  in  white  stepped  through  and  slowly  passed 
him.  It  was  Alice  Wingfield.  He  spoke  to  her.  She 
did  not  answer.  He  went  close  to  her  and  saw  that 
she  was  asleep ! 

She  was  making  for  the  entrance-door.  He  took 
her  hand  gently,  and  led  her  into  a  side- door,  and  on 
into  the  ball-room.  She  moved  towards  a  window 
through  which  the  moonlight  streamed,  and  sat  on  a 
cushioned  bench  beneath  it.  It  was  the  spot  where 
he  had7  seen  her  at  the  dance.  She  leaned  forward, 
looking  into  space,  as  she  did  at  him  then.  He  moved 
and  got  in  her  line  of  vision. 

The  picture  was  weird.  She  wore  a  soft  white 
chamber-gown,  her  hair  hung  loose  on  her  shoulders, 
her  pale  face  cowled  in  it.  The  look  was  inexpres- 
sibly sad.  Over  her  fell  dim,  coloured  lights  from  the 


THE  SEAL  OF  HIS  HERITAGE  IS  SET.      H9 

stained-glass  windows ;  and  shadowy  ancestors  looked 
silently  down  from  the  armour-hung  walls. 

To  Gaston,  collected  as  he  was,  it  gave  an  ominous 
feeling.  Why  did  she  come  here  even  in  her  sleep  ? 
What  did  that  look  mean  ?  He  gazed  intently  into 
her  eyes. 

All  at  once  her  voice  came  low  and  broken,  and  a 
sob  followed  the  words  : 

"  Gaston,  my  brother,  my  brother ! " 

He  stood  for  a  moment  stunned,  gazing  helplessly 
at  her  passive  figure. 

"  Gaston,  my  brother  !  "  he  repeated  to  himself. 

Then  the  painful  matter  dawned  upon  him.  This 
girl,  the  granddaughter  of  the  rector  of  the  parish, 
was  his  father's  daughter — his  own  sister  !  He  had  a 
sudden  spring  of  new  affection — unfelt  for  those  othei 
relations,  his  by  the  rights  of  the  law  and  the  gospel. 
The  pathos  of  the  thing  caught  him  in  the  throat—- 
for her  how  pitiful,  how  unhappy  !  He  was  sure  that, 
somehow,  she  had  only  come  to  know  of  it  since  the 
afternoon.  Then  there  had  been  so  different  a  look 
in  her  face ! 

One  thing  was  clear :  he  had  no  right  to  this  se- 
cret, and  it  must  be  for  now  as  if  it  had  never  been. 
He  came  to  her,  and  took  her  hand.  She  rose.  He 
led  her  from  the  room,  out  into  the  courtyard,  and 
from  there  through  the  gate  into  the  road. 

All  was  still.    They  passed  over  to  the  rectory. 


120  THE  TRESPASSER. 

Just  inside  the  gate,  Gaston  saw  a  figure  issue  from 
the  house,  and  come  quickly  towards  them.  It  was 
the  rector,  excited,  anxious. 

Gaston  motioned  silence,  and  pointed  to  her. 
Then  he  briefly  whispered  how  she  had  come.  The 
clergyman  said  that  he  had  felt  uneasy  about  her,  had 
gone  to  her  room,  and  was  just  issuing  in  search  of 
her.  Gaston  resigned  her,  softly  advised  not  waking 
her,  and  bade  the  clergyman  good -night. 

But  presently  he  turned,  touched  the  arm  of  the 
old  man,  and  said  meaningly : 

"  I  know." 

The  rector's  voice  shook  as  he  replied : 

"  You  have  not  spoken  to  her  ?  " 

"No." 

"  You  will  not  speak  of  it?" 

"No." 

"Unless  I  should  die,  and  she  should  wish  it?" 

"  Always  as  she  wishes." 

They  parted,  and  Gaston  returned  to  the  Court. 


CHAPTER  VIII. 

HE   ANSWERS   AN   AWKWARD   QUESTION. 

THE  next  morning  Brillon  brought  a  note  from 
Ian  Belward,  which  said  that  he  was  starting,  and 
asked  Gaston  to  be  sure  and  come  to  Paris.  The  note 
was  carelessly  friendly.  After  reading  it,  he  lay  think- 
ing. Presently  he  chanced  to  see  Jacques  look  in- 
tently at  him. 

"  Well,  Brillon,  what  is  it  ?  "  he  asked  genially. 

Jacques  had  come  on  better  than  Gaston  had 
hoped  for,  but  the  light  play  of  his  nature  was  gone — 
he  was  grave,  almost  melancholy ;  and,  in  his  way,  as 
notable  as  his  master.  Their  life  in  London  had 
changed  him  much.  A  valet  in  St.  James'  Street  was 
not  a  hunting  comrade  on  the  Coppermine  River. 
Often  when  Jacques  was  left  alone  he  stood  at  the 
window  looking  out  on  the  gay  traffic,  scarcely  stir- 
ring ;  his  eyes  slow,  brooding.  Occasionally,  standing 
so,  he  would  make  the  sacred  gesture.  One  who  heard 
him  swear  now  and  then,  in  a  calm,  deliberate  way — 
at  the  cook  and  the  porter, — would  have  thought  the 
matters  in  strange  contrast.  But  his  religion  was  a 
central  habit,  followed  as  mechanically  as  his  appetite 


122  THE  TRESPASSER. 

or  the  folding  of  his  master's  clothes.  Besides,  like 
most  woodsmen,  he  was  superstitious.  Gaston  was 
kind  with  him,  keeping,  however,  a  firm  hand  till  his 
manner  had  become  informed  by  the  new  duties. 
Jacques*  greatest  pleasure  was  his  early  morning  visits 
to  the  stables.  Here  were  Saracen  and  Jim  the  bron- 
cho— sleek,  savage,  playful.  But  he  touched  the  high- 
est point  of  his  London  experience  when  they  rode  in 
the  Park. 

In  this  Gaston  remained  singular.  He  rode  al- 
ways with  Jacques.  Perhaps  he  wished  to  preserve 
one  possible  relic  of  the  old  life,  perhaps  he  liked  this 
touch  of  drama ;  or  both.  It  created  notice,  criticism, 
but  he  was  superior  to  that.  Time  and  again  people 
asked  him  to  ride,  but  he  always  pleaded  another  en- 
gagement. He  would  then  be  seen  with  Jacques  plus 
Jacques'  ear-rings  and  the  wonderful  hair,  riding 
grandly  in  the  Eow.  Jacques'  eyes  sparkled  and  a 
snatch  of  song  came  to  his  lips  at  these  times. 

No  figures  in  the  Park  were  so  striking.  There 
was  nothing  bizarre,  but  Gaston  had  a  distinguished 
look,  and  women  who  had  felt  his  hand  at  their  waists 
in  the  dance  the  night  before,  now  knew  him,  some- 
how, at  a  grave  distance.  Though  Gaston  did  not  say 
it  to  himself,  these  were  the  hours  when  he  really  was 
with  the  old  life— lived  it  again — prairie,  savannah, 
ice-plain,  alkali  desert.  When,  dismounting,  the 
horses  were  taken  and  they  went  up  the  stairs,  Gaston 


HE  ANSWERS  AN  AWKWARD  QUESTION.    123 

would  softly  lay  his  whip  across  Jacques'  shoulders 
without  speaking.  This  was  their  only  ritual  of  cam- 
araderie, and  neglect  of  it  would  have  fretted  the  half- 
breed.  Never  had  man  such  a  servant.  No  matter 
at  what  hour  Gaston  returned,  he  found  Jacques  wait- 
ing ;  and  when  he  woke  he  found  him  ready,  as  now, 
on  this  morning,  after  a  strange  night. 

"  What  is  it,  Jacques  ?  "  he  repeated. 

The  old  name  !  Jacques  shivered  a  little  with 
pleasure.  Presently  he  broke  out  with  : 

"  Monsieur,  when  do  we  go  back  ?  " 

"Go  back  where?" 

"  To  the  North,  monsieur." 

"  What's  in  your  noddle  now,  Brillon  ?  " 

The  impatient  return  to  "Brillon"  cut  Jacques 
like  a  whip. 

"  Monsieur,"  he  suddenly  said,  his  face  glowing, 
his  hands  opening  nervously,  "  we  have  eat,  we  have 
drunk,  we  have  had  the  dance  and  the  great  music 
here :  Is  it  enough  ?  Sometimes  as  you  sleep  you 
call  out,  and  you  toss  to  the  strokes  of  the  tower- 
clock.  When  we  lie  on  the  Plains  of  Yath  from  sun- 
set to  sunrise,  you  never  stir  then.  You  remember 
when  we  sleep  on  the  ledge  of  the  Voshti  mountain — 
so  narrow  that  we  were  tied  together  ?  Well,  we  were 
as  babes  in  blankets.  In  the  Prairie  of  the  Ten  Stars 
your  fingers  were  on  the  trigger  firm  as  a  bolt ;  here  I 
have  watch  them  shake  with  the  coffee-cup.  Monsieur, 


124  THE  TRESPASSER. 

you  have  seen :  Is  it  enough  ?  You  have  lived  here : 
Is  it  like  the  old  lodge  and  the  long  trail  ?  " 

Gaston  sat  up  in  bed,  looked  in  the  mirror  op- 
posite, ran  his  fingers  through  his  hair,  regarded  his 
hands,  turning  them  over,  and  then,  with  sharp  im- 
patience, said : 

"  Go  to  hell !  " 

The  little  man's  face  flushed  to  his  hair;  he 
sucked  in  the  air  with  a  gasp.  Without  a  word,  he 
went  to  the  dressing-table,  poured  out  the  shaving- 
water,  threw  a  towel  over  his  arm,  and  turned  to  come 
to  the  bed ;  but,  all  at  once,  he  sidled  back,  put  down 
the  water,  and  furtively  drew  a  sleeve  across  his  eyes. 

Gaston  saw,  and  something  suddenly  burned  in 
him.  He  dropped  his  eyes,  slid  out  of  bed,  into  his 
dressing-gown,  and  sat  down. 

Jacques  made  ready.  He  was  not  prepared  to 
have  Gaston  catch  him  by  the  shoulders  with  a 
nervous  grip,  search  his  eyes,  and  say : 

"  You  damned  little  fool !    I'm  not  worth  it ! " 

Jacques'  face  shone. 

"  Every  great  man  has  his  fool — alors  I  "  was  the 
happy  reply. 

"  Jacques,"  Gaston  presently  said,  "  what's  on  your 
mind?" 

«  I  saw — last  night,  monsieur,"  he  said. 

"You  saw  what?" 

"  I  saw  you  in  the  courtyard  with  the  lady." 


HE  ANSWERS  AN  AWKWARD  QUESTION.    125 

Gaston  was  now  very  grave. 

"  Did  you  recognise  her  ?  " 

"  No  :  she  moved  all  as  a  spirit." 

"  Jacques,  that  matter  is  between  you  and  me.  I'm 

going  to  tell  you,  though,  two  things ;  and where's 

your  string  of  beads  ?  " 

Jac4ues  drew  out  his  rosary. 

"  That's  all  right.  Mum  as  Manitou !  She  was 
asleep ;  she  is  my  sister.  And  that  is  all,  till  there's 
need  for  you  to  know  more  ! " 

In  this  new  confidence  Jacques  was  content.  The 
life  was  a  gilded  mess,  but  he  could  endure  it  now. 

Three  days  passed.  During  that  time  Gaston  was 
up  to  town  twice ;  lunched  at  Lady  Dargan's,  and  dined 
at  Lord  Dunf olly's.  For  his  grandfather,  who  was  in- 
disposed, he  was  induced  to  preside  at  a  political  meet- 
ing in  the  interest  of  a  wealthy  local  brewer,  who  con- 
fidently expected  the  seat,  and,  through  gifts  to  the 
party,  a  knighthood.  Before  the  meeting,  in  the  gush 
of — as  he  put  it — "  kindred  aims,"  he  laid  a  finger 
familiarly  in  Gaston's  button-hole.  Jacques,  who  was 
present,  smiled,  for  he  knew  every  change  in  his  mas- 
ter's face,  and  he  saw  a  glitter  in  his  eye.  He  remem- 
bered when  they  two  were  in  trouble  with  a  gang  of 
river-drivers,  and  one  did  this  same  thing  rudely ;  how 
Gaston  looked  down,  and  said,  with  a  devilish  soft- 
ness :  "  Take  it  away ! "  And  immediately  after  the 
man  did  so. 


126  THE  TRESPASSER. 

Mr.  Sylvester  Gregory  Babbs,  in  a  similar  position, 
heard  a  voice  say  down  at  him,  with  a  curious  oblique- 
ness: 

"  If  you  please ! " 

The  keenest  edge  of  it  was  lost  on  the  flaring 
brewer,  but  his  fingers  dropped,  and  he  twisted  his 
heavy  watch-chain  uneasily.  The  meeting  began.  Gas- 
ton  in  a  few  formal  words,  unconventional  in  idea,  in- 
troduced Mr.  Babbs  as  "  a  gentleman  whose  name  was 
a  household  word  in  the  county,  who  would  carry  into 
Parliament  the  civic  responsibility  shown  in  his  private 
life,  who  would  render  his  party  a  support  likely  to 
fulfil  its  purpose." 

When  he  sat  down,  Captain  Maudsley  said : 

"  That's  a  trifle  vague,  Belward." 

"  How  can  one  treat  him  with  importance  ?  " 

"  He's  the  sort  that  makes  a  noise  one  way  or 
another." 

"  Yes.  Obituary :  { At  his  residence  in  Babbslow 
Square,  yesterday,  Sir  S.  G.  Babbs,  M.  P.,  member  of 
the  London  County  Council.  Sir  S.  G.  Babbs,  it  will 
be  remembered,  gave  £100,000  to  build  a  home  for  the 
propagation  of  Vice,  and " 

«  That's  droll ! " 

"  Why  not  Vice  ?  'Twould  be  just  the  same  in  his 
mind.  He  doesn't  give  from  a  sense  of  moral  duty. 
Not  he ;  he's  a  bungowawen  !  " 

"What  is  that?" 


HE  ANSWERS  AN  AWKWARD  QUESTION.    127 

"  That's  Indian.  You  buy  a  lot  of  Indian  or  half- 
breed  loafers  with  beaver-skins  and  rum,  go  to  the 
Mount  of  the  Burning  Arrows,  and  these  fellows  dance 
round  you  and  call  you  one  of  the  lost  race,  the  Mighty 
Men  of  the  Kimash  Hills.  And  they'll  do  that  while ' 
the  rum  lasts.  Meanwhile  you  get  to  think  yourself 
a  devil  of  a  swell — you  and  the  gods !  .  .  .  And 
now  we  had  better  listen  to  this  bungowawen,  hadn't 
we?" 

The  room  was  full,  and  on  the  platform  were  gen- 
tlemen come  to  support  Sir  William  Belward.  They 
were  interested  to  see  how  Gaston  would  carry  it  off. 

Mr.  Babbs'  speech  was  like  a  thousand  others  by 
the  same  kind  of  man.  More  speeches — some  oppos- 
ing— followed,  and  at  last  came  the  chairman  to 
close  the  meeting.  He  addressed  himself  chiefly  to  a 
bunch  of  farmers,  artisans,  and  labouring-men  near. 
After  some  good-natured  raillery  at  political  meetings 
in  general,  the  bigotry  of  party,  the  difficulty  in  get- 
ting the  wheat  from  the  chaff,  and  some  incisive 
thrusts  at  those  who  promised  the  moon  and  gave  a 
green  cheese,  who  spent  their  time  in  berating  their 
opponents,  he  said : 

"  There's  a  game  that  sailors  play  on  board  ship — 
men-o'-war  and  sailing-ships  mostly.  I  never  could 
quite  understand  it,  nor  could  any  officers  ever  tell 
me — the  fo'castle  for  the  men  and  the  quarter-deck 
for  the  officers,  and  what's  English  to  one  is  Greek  to 


128  THE  TRESPASSER. 

the  other !  Well,  this  was  all  I  could  see  in  the  game. 
They  sat  about,  sometimes  talking,  sometimes  not. 
All  at  once  a  chap  would  rise  and  say,  '  Allow  me  to 
speak,  me  noble  lord,'  and  follow  this  by  hitting  some 
one  of  the  party  wherever  the  blow  got  in  easiest — on 
the  head,  anywhere !  [Laughter.]  Then  he  would 
sit  down  seriously,  and  someone  else  spoke  to  his 
noble  lordship.  Nobody  got  angry  at  the  knocks,  and 
Heaven  only  knows  what  it  was  all  about.  That  is 
much  the  way  with  politics,  when  it  is  played  fair. 
But  here  is  what  I  want  particularly  to  say :  We  are 
not  all  born  the  same,  nor  can  we^live  the  same.  One 
man  is  born  a  brute,  and  another  a  good  sort ;  one  a 
liar,  and  one  an  honest  man ;  one  has  brains,  and  the 
other  hasn't.  Now,  I've  lived  where,  as  they  say,  one 
man  is  as  good  as  another.  But  he  isn't,  there  or 
here.  A  weak  man  can't  run  with  a  strong.  We 
have  heard  to-night  -  a  lot  of  talk  for  something  and 
against  something.  It  is  over.  Are  you  sure  you 
have  got  what  was  meant  clear  in  your  mind? 
[Laughter,  and  '  Blowed  if  we  'ave ! ']  Very  well ;  do 
not  worry  about  that.  We  have  been  playing  a  game 
of,  '  Allow  me  to  speak,  me  noble  lord  ! '  And  who 
is  going  to  help  you  to  get  the  most  out  of  your  coun- 
try and  your  life  isn't  easy  to  know.  But  we  can  get 
hold  of  a  few  clear  ideas,  and  measure  things  against 
them.  I  know  and  have  talked  with  a  good  many  of 
you  here  ['  That's  so !  That's  so  ! '],  and  you  know  my 


HE  ANSWERS  AN  AWKWARD  QUESTION.    129 

ideas  pretty  well — that  they  are  honest  at  least,  and 
that  I  have  seen  the  countries  where  freedom  is  c  on 
the  job,'  as  they  say.  Now,  don't  put  your  faith  in 
men  and  in  a  party  that  cry,  *  We  will  make  all  things 
new,'  to  the  tune  of,  'We  are  a  band  of  brothers.' 
Trust  in  one  that  says, '  You  cannot  undo  the  cen- 
turies. Take  off  the  roof,  remove  a  wall,  let  in  the 
air,  throw  out  a  wing,  but  leave  the  old  foundations.' 
And  that  is  the  real  difference  between  the  other 
party  and  mine;  and  these  political  games  of  ours 
come  to  that  chiefly." 

Presently  he  called  for  the  hands  of  the  meeting. 
They  were  given  for  Mr.  Babbs. 

Suddenly  a  man's  strong,  arid  voice  came  from  the 
crowd : 

"  *  Allow  me  to  speak,  me  noble  lord  ! '  [Great 
laughter.  Then  a  pause.]  Where's  my  old  chum, 
Jock  Lawson  ?  " 

The  audience  stilled.  Gaston's  face  went  grave. 
He  replied,  in  a  firm,  clear  voice : 

"  In  Heaven,  my  man.  You'll  never  see  him 
more ! " 

There  was  silence  for  a  moment,  a  murmur,  then 
a  faint  burst  of  applause.  Presently  John  Cawley, 
the  landlord  of  "The  Whisk  o'  Barley,"  made 
towards  Gaston.  Gaston  greeted  him,  and  inquired 
after  his  wife.  He  was  told  that  she  was  very  ill,  and 
had  sent  her  husband  to  beg  Gaston  to  come.  Gas- 


130  THE  TRESPASSER. 

ton  had  dreaded  this  hour,  though  he  knew  it  would 
come  one  day.  A  woman  on  a  deathbed  has  a  right 
to  ask  for  and  get  the  truth.  He  had  forborne  telling 
her  of  her  son  ;  and  she,  whenever  she  had  seen  him, 
had  contented  herself  with  asking  general  questions, 
dreading  in  her  heart  that  Jock  had  died  a  dreadful 
or  shameful  death,  or  else  this  gentleman  would,  vol- 
untarily, say  more.  But,  herself  on  her  way  out  of 
the  world,  as  she  feared,  wished  the  truth,  whatever 
it  might  be. 

Gaston  told  Cawley  that  he  would  drive  over  at 
once,  and  then  asked  who  it  was  had  called  out  at 
him.  A  drunken,  poaching  fellow,  he  was  told,  who 
in  all  the  years  since  Jock  had  gone,  had  never  passed 
the  inn  without  stopping  to  say,  "Where's  my  old 
chum,  Jock  Lawson  ?  "  In  the  past  he  and  Jock  had 
been  in  more  than  one  scrape  together.  He  had 
learned  from  Mrs.  Cawley  that  Gaston  had  known 
Jock  in  Canada. 

When  Cawley  had  gone,  Gaston  turned  to  the 
other  gentlemen  present. 

"An  original  speech,  upon  my  word,  Belward!" 
said  Captain  Maudsley. 

Mr.  Warren  Gasgoyne  came. 

"  You  are  expected  to  lunch  or  something  to-mor- 
row, Belward,  you  remember  ?  Devil  of  a  speech  that ! 
But,  if  you  will  '  allow  me  to  speak,  me  noble  lord,' 
you  are  the  rankest  Conservative  of  us  all." 


HE  ANSWERS  AN  AWKWARD  QUESTION. 

"Don't  you  know  that  the  easiest  constitutional 
step  is  from  a  republic  to  an  autocracy,  and  vice 
versd  9  " 

"  I  don't  know  it,  and  I  don't  know  how  you 
do  it." 

"Do  what?" 

"  Make  them  think  as  you  do." 

He  waved  his  hand  to  the  departing  crowd. 

"  I  don't.  I  try  to  think  as  they  do.  I  am  always 
in  touch  with  the  primitive  mind." 

"You  ought  to  do  great  things  here,  Belward," 
said  the  other  seriously.  "  You  have  the  trick ;  and 
we  need  wisdom  at  Westminster." 

"  Don't  be  mistaken ;  I  am  only  adaptable.  There's 
frank  confession ! " 

At  this  point  Mr.  Babbs  came  up  and  said  good- 
night in  a  large,  self-conscious  way.  Gaston  hoped 
that  his  campaign  would  not  be  wasted,  and  the  fluffy 
gentleman  retired.  When  he  got  out  of  earshot  in 
the  shadows,  he  turned  and  shook  his  fist  towards 
Gaston,  saying,  "  Half-breed  upstart ! "  Then  he  re- 
freshed his  spirits  by  swearing  at  his  coachman. 

Gaston  and  Jacques  drove  quickly  over  to  "The 
Whisk  o'  Barley."  Gaston  was  now  intent  to  tell  the 
whole  truth.  He  wished  that  he  had  done  it  before ; 
but  his  motives  had  been  good — it  was  not  to  save 
himself.  Yet  he  shrank.  Presently  he  thought : 

"What  is  the  matter  with  me?    Before  I  came 


132  THE  TRESPASSER. 

here,  if  I  had  an  idea  I  stuck  to  it,  and  didn't  have 
any  nonsense  when  I  knew  I  was  right.  I  am  getting 
sensitive — the  thing  I  find  everywhere  in  this  country : 
fear  of  feeling  or  giving  pain ;  as  if  the  bad  tooth  out 
isn't  better  than  the  bad  tooth  in  !  When  I  really  get 
sentimental  I'll  fold  my  Arab  tent — so  help  me,  ye 
seventy  Gods  of  Yath  ! " 

A  little  while  after  he  was  at  Mrs.  Cawley's  bed, 
the  landlord  handing  him  a  glass  of  hot  grog,  Jock's 
mother  eying  him  feverishly  from  the  quilt.  Gaston 
quietly  felt  her  wrist,  counting  the  pulse-beats ;  then 
told  Cawley  to  wet  a  cloth  and  hand  it  to  him.  He 
put  it  gently  on  the  woman's  head.  The  eyes  of  the 
woman  followed  him  anxiously.  He  sat  down  again, 
and  in  response  to  her  questioning  gaze,  began  the 
story  of  Jock's  life  as  he  knew  it. 

Cawley  stood  leaning  on  the  footboard ;  the  wom- 
an's face  was  cowled  in  the  quilt  with  hungry  eyes ; 
and  Gaston's  voice  went  on  in  a  low  monotone,  to  the 
ticking  of  the  great  clock  in  the  next  room.  Gaston 
watched  her  face,  and  there  came  to  him  like  an  in- 
spiration little  things  Jock  did,  which  would  mean 
more  to  his  mother  than  large  adventures.  Her  lips 
moved  now  and  again,  even  a  smile  nickered.  At  last 
Gaston  came  to  his  father's  own  death  and  the  years 
that  followed ;  then  the  events  in  Labrador. 

He  approached  this  with  unusual  delicacy:  it 
needed  bravery  to  look  into  the  mother's  eyes,  and 


HE  ANSWERS  AN  AWKWARD  QUESTION.    133 

tell  the  story.  He  did  not  know  how  dramatically 
he  told  it — how  he  etched  it  without  a  waste  word. 
When  he  came  to  that  scene  in  the  Fort, — the  three 
men  sitting,  targets  for  his  bullets, — he  softened  the 
details  greatly.  He  did  not  tell  it  as  he  told  it  at  the 
Court,  but  the  simpler,  sparser  language  made  it  trag- 
ically clear.  There  was  no  sound  from  the  bed,  none 
from  the  footboard,  but  he  heard  a  door  open  and 
shut  without,  and  footsteps  somewhere  near. 

How  he  put  the  body  in  the  tree,  and  prayed  over 
it  and  left  it  there,  was  all  told ;  and  then  he  paused. 
He  turned  a  little  sick  as  he  saw  the  white  face  before 
him.  She  drew  herself  up,  her  fingers  caught  away 
the  night-dress  at  her  throat ;  she  stared  hard  at  him 
for  a  moment,  and  then,  with  a  wild,  moaning  voice, 
cried  out: 

"  You  killed  my  boy !  You  killed  my  boy !  You 
killed  my  boy ! " 

Gaston  was  about  to  take  her  hand,  when  he  heard 
a  shuffle  and  a  rush  behind  him.  He  rose,  turned 
swiftly,  saw  a  bottle  swinging,  threw  up  his  hand  .  .  . 
and  fell  backwards  against  the  bed. 

The  woman  caught  his  bleeding  head  to  her  breast, 
and  hugged  it. 

"  My  Jock !  my  poor  boy !  "  she  cried  in  delirium 
now. 

Cawley  had  thrown  his  arms  about  the  struggling, 
drunken  assailant — Jock's  poaching  friend. 


134:  THE  TRESPASSER. 

The  mother  now  called  out  to  the  pinioned  man, 
as  she  had  done  to  Gaston : 

"  You  have  killed  my  boy ! " 

She  kissed  Gaston's  bloody  face. 

A  messenger  was  soon  on  the  way  to  Kidley  Court, 
and  in  a  little  upper  room  Jacques  was  caring  for  his 
master. 


CHAPTER  IX. 

HE   FINDS   NEW   SPONSOKS. 

GASTON  lay  for  many  days  at  "The  Whisk  o* 
Barley."  During  that  time  the  inn  was  not  open  to 
customers.  The  woman  also  for  two  days  hung  at 
the  point  of  death,  and  then  rallied.  She  remem- 
bered the  events  of  the  painful  night,  and  often  asked 
after  Gaston.  Somehow,  her  horror  of  her  son's  death 
at  his  hands  was  met  hy  the  injury  done  him  now. 
She  vaguely  felt  that  there  had  been  justice  and  pun- 
ishment. She  knew  that  in  the  room  at  Labrador  Gas- 
ton  Belward  had  been  scarcely  less  mad  than  her  son. 

Gaston,  as  soon  as  he  became  conscious,  said  that 
his  assailant  must  be  got  out  of  the  way  of  the  police, 
and  to  that  end  bade  Jacques  send  for  Mr.  "Warren 
Gasgoyne.  Mr.  Gasgoyne  and  Sir  William  arrived  at 
the  same  time,  but  Gaston  was  unconscious  again. 
Jacques,  however,  told  them  what  his  master's  wishes 
were,  and  they  were  carried  out ;  Jock's  friend  secretly 
left  England  forever.  Sir  William  and  Mr.  Gasgoyne 
got  the  whole  tale  from  the  landlord,  whom  they  asked 
to  say  nothing  publicly. 


136  THE  TRESPASSER. 

Lady  Bel  ward  drove  down  each  day,  and  sat  beside 
him  for  a  couple  of  hours — silent,  solicitous,  smooth- 
ing his  pillow  or  his  wasting  hand.  The  brain  had 
been  injured,  and  recovery  could  not  be  immediate. 
Hovey  the  housekeeper  had  so  begged  to  be  installed  as 
nurse,  that  her  wish  was  granted,  and  she  was  with 
him  night  and  day.  Now  she  shook  her  head  at  him 
sadly,  now  talked  in  broken  sentences  to  herself,  now 
bustled  about  silently,  a  tyrant  to  the  other  servants 
sent  down  from  the  Court.  Every  day  also  the  head- 
groom  and  the  huntsman  came,  and  in  the  village  Gas- 
ton's  humble  friends  discussed  the  mystery,  stoutly  de- 
fending him  when  some  one  said  it  was  "  more  nor 
gabble,  that  theer  saying  o'  the  poacher  at  the  meet- 
in'!" 

But  the  landlord  and  his  wife  kept  silence,  the  of- 
ficers of  the  law  took  no  action,  and  the  town  and  coun- 
try newspapers  could  do  no  more  than  speak  of  "  A 
vicious  assault  upon  the  heir  of  Eidley  Court."  It  had 
become  the  custom  now  to  leave  Ian  out  of  that  question. 
But  the  wonder  died  as  all  wonders  do,  and  Gaston 
made  his  fight  for  health. 

The  day  before  he  was  removed  to  the  Court,  Mrs. 
Cawley  was  helped  upstairs  to  see  him.  She  was  gaunt 
and  hollow-eyed.  Lady  Belward  and  Mrs.  Gasgoyne 
were  present.  The  woman  made  her  respects,  and  then 
stood  at  Gaston's  bedside.  He  looked  up  with  a  pain- 
ful smile. 


>00th- 

brain  had 

ot  be  immediate. 

d  to  be  installed  as 

and  she  was  with 

k  her  bead  at  him 

o  herself,  now 

vants 

'  • 

;m  came, 

a  some  one 
gabble,  that  theer  say 

•"•//  is  no  lie,  there  is  some  Ming  in  it.' 
Bii  ,.,v)  ,  the  of- 

'  "A 

t,  had 


.nd  Gaston 

art,  Mrs. 
was  gaunt 
nd  Mrs.  Gasgoyne 
• 

4  up  with  a  pain- 
lile, 


HE  FINDS  NEW  SPONSORS.  137 

"Do  you  forgive  me?"  he  asked. — "I've  almost 
paid!" 

He  touched  his  bandaged  head. 

" It  ain't  for  mothers  to  forgi'e  the  thing"  she  re- 
plied, in  a  steady  voice,  "  but  I  can  f orgi'e  the  man. 
'Twere  done  i'  madness — there  beant  the  will  workin' 
i'  such.  'Twere  a  comfort  that  he'd  a  prayin'  over 
un!" 

Gaston  took  the  gnarled  fingers  in  his.  It  had  never 
struck  him  how  dreadful  a  thing  it  was, — so  used  had 
he  been  to  death  in  many  forms — till  he  had  told  the 
story  to  this  mother. 

"  Mrs.  Cawley,"  he  said,  "  I  can't  make  up  to  you 
what  Jock  would  have  been ;  but  I  can  do  for  you  in 
one  way  as  much  as  Jock.  This  house  is  yours  from 
to-day." 

He  drew  a  deed  from  the  coverlet,  and  handed  it  to 
her.  He  had  got  it  from  Sir  William  that  morning. 
The  poor  and  the  crude  in  mind  can  only  understand 
an  objective  emotion,  and  the  counters  for  these  are 
this  world's  goods.  Here  was  a  balm  in  Gilead.  The 
love  of  her  child  was  real,  but  the  consolation  was  so 
practical  to  Mrs.  Cawley  that  the  lips  which  might 
have  cursed,  said : 

"  Oh,  sir,  the  wind  do  be  fittin'  the  shore  lamb !  I* 
the  last  Judgen,  I'll  no  speak  agen  'ee.  I  be  sore  fret- 
ted harm  come  to  'ee." 

At  this  Mrs.  Gasgoyne  rose,  and  in  her  bustling 
10 


138  THE  TRESPASSER. 

way  dismissed  the  grateful  peasant,  who  fondled  the 
deed  and  called  eagerly  down  the  stairs  to  her  husband 
as  she  went. 

Mrs.  Gasgoyne  then  came  back,  sat  down,  and  said : 

"  Now  you  needn't  fret  about  that  any  longer — 
barbarian  ! "  she  added,  shaking  a  finger.  "  Didn't  I 
say  that  you  would  get  into  trouble  ?  that  you  would 
set  the  country  talking  ?  Here  you  were,  in  the  dead 
of  night,  telling  ghost  stories,  and  raking  up  your  sins, 
with  no  cause  whatever,  instead  of  in  your  bed.  You 
were  to  have  lunched  with  us  the  next  day — I  had 
asked  Lady  Harriet  to  meet  you,  too  ! — and  you  didn't ; 
and  you  have  wretched  patches  where  your  hair  ought 
to  be.  How  can  you  promise  that  you'll  not  make  a 
madder  sensation  some  day  ?  " 

Gaston  smiled  up  at  her.  Her  fresh  honesty, 
under  the  guise  of  banter,  was  always  grateful  to 
him.  He  shook  his  head,  smiled,  and  said  nothing. 

She  went  on. 

"  I  want  a  promise  that  you  will  do  what  your  god- 
father and  godmother  will  swear  for  you." 

She  acted  on  him  like  wine. 

"  Of  course,  anything.  Who  are  my  godfather  and 
godmother  ?  " 

She  looked  him  steadily,  warmly  in  the  eyes  : 

"  Warren  and  myself." 

Now  he  understood  :  his  promise  to  his  grand- 
mother and  grandfather.  So,  they  had  spoken  !  He 


HE  FINDS  NEW  SPONSORS.  139 

was  sure  that  Mrs.  Gasgoyne  had  objected.  He  knew 
that  behind  her  playful  treatment  of  the  subject 
there  was  real  scepticism  of  himself.  It  put  him  on 
his  mettle,  and  yet  he  knew  she  read  him  deeper  than 
anyone  else,  and  flattered  him  least. 

He  put  out  his  hand,  and  took  hers. 

"  You  take  large  responsibilities,"  he  said,  "  but  I 
will  try  and  justify  you — honestly,  yes." 

In  her  hearty  way,  she  kissed  him  on  the 
cheek. 

"There!"  she  responded,  "if  you  and  Delia  do 
make  up  your  minds,  see  that  you  treat  her  well.  And 
you  are  to  come,  just  as  soon  as  you  are  able,  to  stay 
at  Peppingham.  Delia,  silly  child,  is  anxious,  and 
can't  see  why  she  mustn't  call  with  me  now. 

In  his  room  at  the  Court  that  night,  Gaston  in- 
quired of  Jacques  about  Alice  Wingfield,  and  was  told 
that  on  the  day  of  the  accident  she  had  left  with  her 
grandfather  for  the  Continent.  He  was  not  sorry. 
For  his  own  sake  he  could  have  wished  an  under- 
standing between  them.  But  now  he  was  on  the  way 
to  marriage,  and  it  was  as  well  that  there  should  be 
no  new  situations.  The  girl  could  not  wish  the  thing 
known.  There  would  be  left  him,  in  this  case,  to  be- 
friend her  should  it  ever  be  needed.  He  remembered 
the  spring  of  pleasure  he  felt  when  he  first  saw  other 
faces  like  his  father's — his  grandfather's,  his  grand- 


140  THE  TRESPASSER. 

mother's.  But  this  girl's  was  so  different  to  him; 
having  the  tragedy  of  the  lawless,  that  unconscious 
suffering  stamped  by  the  mother  upon  the  child. 
There  was,  however,  nothing  to  be  done.  He  must 
wait. 

Two  days  later  Lady  Dargan  called  to  inquire  after 
him.  He  was  lying  in  his  study  with  a  book,  and  Lady 
Belward  sent  to  ask  him  if  he  would  care  to  see  her 
and  Lord  Dargan's  nephew,  Cluny  Vosse.  Lady  Bel- 
ward  did  not  come ;  Sir  William  brought  them.  Lady 
Dargan  came  softly  to  him,  smiled  more  with  her  eyes 
than  her  lips,  and  told  him  how  sorry  she  had  been  to 
hear  of  his  illness.  Some  months  before  Gaston  had 
met  Cluny  Vosse,  who  at  once  was  his  admirer.  Gas- 
ton  liked  the  youth.  He  was  fresh,  high-minded,  ex- 
travagant, idle ;  but  he  had  no  vices,  and  no  particu- 
lar vanity  save  for  his  personal  appearance.  His  face 
was  ever  radiant  with  health,  shining  with  satisfaction. 
People  liked  him,  and  did  not  discount  it  by  saying 
that  he  had  nothing  in  him.  Gaston  liked  him  most 
because  he  was  so  wholly  himself,  without  guile,  beau- 
tifully honest. 

Now  Cluny  sat  down,  tapped  the  crown  of  his  hat, 
looked  at  him  cheerily,  and  said : 

"  Got  in  a  cracker,  didn't  he  ?  " 

Gaston  nodded,  amused. 

"  The  fellows  at  Brooke's  had  a  talkee-talkee,  and 
they'd  twenty  different  stories.  Of  course  it  was  rot. 


HE  FINDS  NEW  SPONSORS. 

We  were  all  cut  up  though  and  hoped  you'd  pull 
through.  Of  course  there  couldn't  be  any  doubt  of 
that — you've  been  through  too  many,  eh  ?  " 

Cluny  always  assumed  that  Gaston  had  had  num- 
berless tragical  adventures  which,  if  told,  must  make 
Dumas  turn  in  his  grave  with  envy. 

Gaston  smiled,  and  laid  a  hand  upon  the  other's 
knee. 

"  I'm  not  shell-proof,  Vosse,  and  it  was  rather  a 
narrow  squeak,  I'm  told.  But  I'm  kept,  you  see,  for 
a  worse  fate  and  a  sadder." 

"  I  say,  Bel  ward,  you  don't  mean  that  ?  Your 
eyes  go  so  queer  sometimes,  that  a  chap  doesn't  know 
what  to  think.  You  ought  to  live  to  a  hundred. 
You'll  have  to.  You've  got  it  all " 

"  Oh  no,  my  boy,  I  haven't  got  anything."  He 
waved  his  hand  pleasantly  towards  his  grandfather. 
"  I'm  on  the  knees  of  the  gods  merely." 

Cluny  turned  on  Sir  William. 

"  It  isn't  any  secret,  is  it,  sir  ?  He  gets  the  lot, 
doesn't  he?" 

Sir  William's  occasional  smile  came. 

"I  fancy  there's  some  condition  about  the  plate, 
the  pictures,  and  the  title ;  but  I  do  not  suppose  that 
matters  meanwhile ! " 

He  spoke  half-musingly  and  with  a  little  uncon- 
scious irony,  and  the  boy,  vaguely  knowing  that  there 
was  a  cross-current  somewhere,  drifted. 


14:2  THE  TRESPASSER. 

"  No,  of  course  not ;  he  can  have  fun  enough  with- 
out them,  can't  he  ?  " 

Lady  Dargan  here  soothingly  broke  in,  inquiring 
about  Gaston's  illness,  and  showing  a  tactful  concern. 
But  the  nephew  persisted  : 

"  I  say,  Belward,  Aunt  Sophie  was  cut  up  no  end 
when  she  heard  of  it.  She  wouldn't  go  out  to  dinner 
that  night  at  Lord  Dunfolly's,  and  of  course  I  didn't 
go.  And  I  wanted  to  ;  for  Delia  Gasgoyne  was  to  be 
there,  and  she's  ripping." 

Lady  Dargan,  in  spite  of  herself,  blushed,  but 
without  confusion,  and  Gaston  adroitly  led  the  con- 
versation otherwhere.  Presently  she  said  that  they 
were  to  be  at  their  villa  in  France  during  the  late 
summer,  and  if  he  chanced  to  be  abroad  would  he 
come  ?  He  said  that  he  intended  to  visit  his  uncle  in 
Paris,  but  that  afterwards  he  would  be  glad  to  visit 
them  for  a  short  time. 

She  looked  astonished. 

"  With  your  uncle  Ian  !  " 

"  Yes.     He  is  to  show  me  art-life,  and  all  that." 

She  looked  troubled.  He  saw  that  she  wished  to 
say  something. 

"  Yes,  Lady  Dargan  ?  "  he  asked. 

She  spoke  with  fluttering  seriousness. 

"  I  asked  you  once  to  come  to  me  if  you  ever 
needed  a  friend.  I  do  not  wait  for  that.  I  ask  you 
not  to  go  to  your  uncle." 


HE  FINDS  NEW  SPONSORS.  143 

"Why?" 

He  was  thinking  that,  despite  social  artifice  and 
worldliness,  she  was  sentimental. 

"Because  there  will  be  trouble.  I  can  see  it. 
You  may  trust  a  woman's  instinct ;  and  I  know  that 
man ! " 

He  did  not  reply  at  once,  but  presently  said  : 

"  I  fancy  I  must  keep  my  promise." 

"What  is  the  book  you  are  reading?"  she  said, 
changing  the  subject,  for  Sir  William  was  listening. 

He  opened  it,  and  smiled  musingly. 

"  It  is  called  Affairs  of  Some  Consequence  in  the 
Reign  of  Charles  I.  In  reading  it  I  seemed  to  feel 
that  it  was  incorrect,  and  my  mind  kept  wandering 
away  into  patches  of  things — incidents,  scenes,  bits  of 
talk — as  I  fancied  they  really  were,  not  apocryphal  or 
'  edited '  as  here." 

" I  say,"  said  Cluny,  "  that's  rum,  isn't  it?" 

"For  instance,"  Gaston  continued,  "this  tale  of 
King  Charles  and  Buckingham."  He  read  it.  "  Now 
here  is  the  scene  as  I  picture  it."  In  quick,  elliptical 
phrases  he  gave  the  tale  from  a  different  standpoint. 

Sir  William  stared  curiously  at  Gaston,  then  felt 
for  some  keys  in  his  pocket.  He  got  up  and  rang  the 
bell.  Gaston  was  still  talking.  He  gave  the  keys  to 
Falby  with  a  whispered  word.  In  a  few  moments 
Falby  placed  a  small  leather  box  beside  Sir  William, 
and  retired  at  a  nod.  Sir  William  presently  said : 


144  THE  TRESPASSER. 

"  Where  did  you  read  those  things  ?  " 

"  I  do  not  know  that  I  ever  read  them." 

"  Did  your  father  tell  you  them?  " 

"  I  do  not  remember  so,  though  he  may  have." 

"  Did  you  ever  see  this  box  ?  " 

"  Never  before." 

"  You  do  not  know  what  is  in  it  ?  " 

"  Not  in  the  least." 

"  And  you  have  never  seen  this  key  ?  " 

"  Not  to  my  knowledge." 

"  It  is  very  strange."  He  opened  the  box.  "  Now, 
here  are  private  papers  of  Sir  Gaston  Belward,  more 
than  two  hundred  years  old,  found  almost  fifty  years 
ago  by  myself  in  the  office  of  our  family  solicitor. 
Listen." 

He  then  began  to  read  from  the  faded  manuscript. 
A  mysterious  feeling  pervaded  the  room.  Once  or 
twice  Cluny  gave  a  dry  nervous  kind  of  laugh.  Much 
of  what  Gaston  had  said  was  here  in  stately  old- 
fashioned  language.  At  a  certain  point  the  MSS.  ran  : 

"  I  drew  back  and  said,  4  As  your  grace  will  have 
it,  then '" 

Here  Gaston  came  to  a  sitting  posture,  and  inter- 
rupted. 

"  Wait,  wait ! " 

He  rose,  caught  one  of  two  swords  that  were 
crossed  on  the  wall,  and  stood  out. 

"  This  is  how  it  was.     '  As  your  grace  will  have  it, 


HE  FINDS  NEW  SPONSORS.  145 

then,  to  no  waste  of  time ! '  We  fell  to.  First  he 
came  carefully,  and  made  strange  feints,  learned  at 
King  Louis'  Court,  to  try  my  temper.  But  I  had  had 
these  tricks  of  my  cousin  Secord,  and  I  returned  his 
sport  upon  him.  Then  he  came  swiftly,  and  forced 
me  back  upon  the  garden  wall.  I  gave  to  him  foot  by 
foot,  for  he  was  uncommon  swift  and  dexterous.  He 
pinched  me  sorely  once  under  the  knee,  and  I  re- 
turned him  one  upon  the  wrist,  which  sent  a  devilish 
fire  into  his  eyes.  At  that  his  play  became  so  delicate 
and  confusing  that  I  felt  I  should  go  dizzy  if  it  stayed ; 
so  I  tried  the  one  great  trick  cousin  Secord  taught 
me,  making  to  run  him  through,  as  a  last  effort.  The 
thing  went  wrong,  but  checking  off  my  blunder  he 
blundered  too, — out  of  sheer  wonder,  perhaps,  at  my 
bungling — and  I  disarmed  him.  So  droll  was  it  that 
I  laughed  outright,  and  he,  as  quick  in  humour  as  in 
temper,  stood  hand  on  hip,  and  presently  came  to  a 
smile.  With  that  my  cousin  Secord  cried  :  c  The  king ! 
the  king ! '  I  got  me  up  quickly " 

Here  Gaston,  who  had  in  a  kind  of  dream  acted 
the  whole  scene,  swayed  with  faintness,  and  Cluny 
caught  him,  saving  him  from  a  fall.  Cluny's  colour 
was  all  gone.  Lady  Dargan  had  sat  dazed,  and  Sir 
William's  face  was  anxious,  puzzled. 

A  few  hours  later  Sir  William  was  alone  with  Gas- 
ton,  who  was  recovered  and  cool. 

"  Gaston,"  he  said,  "  I  really  do  not  understand 


146  THE  TRESPASSER. 

this  faculty  of  memory,  or  whatever  it  is.  Have  you 
any  idea  how  you  come  by  it  ?  " 

"  Have  we  any  idea  how  life  comes  and  goes,  sir  ?  " 

"  I  confess  not.     I  confess  not,  really." 

"  Well,  I'm  in  the  dark  about  it  too  ;  but  I  some- 
times fancy  that  I'm  mixed  up  with  that  other  Gas- 
ton." 

"  It  sounds  fantastic." 

"  It  is  fantastic.  Now,  here  is  this  manuscript, 
and  here  is  a  letter  I  wrote  this  morning.  Put  them 
together." 

Sir  William  did  so. 

"  The  handwriting  is  singularly  like." 

"  Well,"  continued  Gaston,  smiling  whimsically, 
"  suppose  that  I  am  Sir  Gaston  Belward,  Baronet,  who 
is  thought  to  lie  in  the  church  yonder,  the  title  is 
mine,  isn't  it  ?  " 

Sir  William  smiled  also. 

"  The  evidence  is  scarce  enough  to  establish  suc- 
cession." 

"  But  there  would  be  no  succession.  A  previous 
holder  of  the  title  isn't  dead :  ergo,  the  present  holder 
has  no  right." 

Gaston  had  shaded  his  eyes  with  his  hand,  and  he 
was  watching  Sir  William's  face  closely,  out  of  curi- 
osity chiefly.  Sir  William  regarded  the  thing  with 
hesitating  humour. 

"  Well,  well,  suppose  so.     The  property  was  in  the 


HE  FINDS  NEW  SPONSORS.  147 

hands  of  a  younger  branch  of  the  family  then.  There 
was  no  entail,  as  now." 

"  Wasn't  there  ?  "  said  Gaston  enigmatically. 

He  was  thinking  of  some  phrases  in  a  manuscript 
which  he  had  found  in  this  box. 

"  Perhaps  where  these  papers  came  from  there  are 
others,"  he  added. 

Sir  William  lifted  his  eyebrows  ironically. 

"  I  hardly  think  so." 

Gaston  laughed,  not  wishing  him  to  take  the  thing 
at  all  seriously.  He  continued  airily  : 

"  It  would  be  amusing  if  the  property  went  with 
the  title  after  all,  wouldn't  it,  sir?" 

Sir  William  got  to  his  feet  and  said  testily : 

"  That  should  never  be  while  I  lived  ! " 

"  Of  course  not,  sir." 

Sir  William  saw  the  bull,  and  laughed,  heartily  for 
him. 

They  bade  each  other  good-night. 

"I'll  have  a  look  in  the  solicitor's  office  all  the 
same,"  said  Gaston  to  himself. 


CHAPTER  X. 

HE   COMES   TO   "THE   WAKING   OF   THE   FIRE." 

A  FEW  days  afterwards  Gaston  joined  a  small 
party  at  Peppingham.  "Without  any  accent  life  was 
made  easy  for  him.  He  was  alone  much,  and  yet,  to 
himself,  he  seemed  to  have  enough  of  company. 

The  situation  did  not  impose  itself  conspicuously. 
Delia  gave  him  no  especial  reason  to  be  vain.  She 
had  not  an  exceeding  wit,  but  she  had  charm,  and  her 
talk  was  interesting  to  Gaston,  who  had  come,  for  the 
first  time,  into  somewhat  intimate  relations  with  an 
English  girl.  He  was  struck  with  her  conventional 
delicacy  and  honour  on  one  side,  and  the  limitation  of 
her  ideas  on  the  other.  But  with  it  all  she  had  some 
slight  touch  of  temperament  which  lifted  her  from 
the  usual  level.  And  just  now  her  sprightliness  was 
more  marked  than  it  had  ever  been. 

Her  great  hour  seemed  come  to  her.  She  knew 
that  there  had  been  talk  among  the  elders,  and  what 
was  meant  by  Gaston's  visit.  Still,  they  were  not 
much  alone  together.  Even  a  woman  with  a  tender 
strain  for  a  man  knows  what  will  serve  for  her 


HE  COMES  TO  THE  "WAKING  OF  THE  FIRE."    149 

ascendancy.  Gaston  saw  her  mostly  with  others  :  the 
graciousness  of  her  disposition,  the  occasional  flash  of 
her  mother's  temper,  and  her  sense  of  being  superior 
to  a  situation — the  gift  of  every  well-bred  English 
girl. 

Cluny  Vosse  was  also  at  the  house,  and  his  devo- 
tion was  divided  between  Delia  and  Gaston.  Cluny 
was  a  great  favourite,  and  Agatha  Gasgoyne,  who  had 
a  wild  sense  of  humour,  egged  him  on  with  her  sister, 
which  gave  Delia  enough  to  do.  At  last  Cluny,  in  a 
burst  of  confidence,  declared  that  he  meant  to  propose 
to  Delia.  Agatha  then  became  serious,  and  said  that 
Delia  was  at  least  four  years  older  than  himself,  that 
he  was  just  her — Agatha's — age,  and  that  the  other 
match  would  be  very  unsuitable.  This  put  Cluny  on 
Delia's  defence,  and  he  praised  her  youth,  and  hinted 
at  his  own  elderliness.  He  had  lived,  he  had  seen  It 
(Cluny  called  the  world  and  all  therein  "  It "),  he  was 
aged ;  he  was  in  the  large  eye  of  experience ;  he  had 
outlived  the  vices  and  th3  virtues  of  his  time,  which, 
told  in  his  own  naive  staccato  phrases,  made  Agatha 
hug  herself.  She  advised  him  to  go  and  ask  Mr. 
Belward's  advice  ;  begged  him  not  to  act  until  he  had 
done  so.  And  Cluny,  who  was  blind  as  a  bat  when  a 
woman  mocked  him,  went  to  Gaston  and  said  : 

"  See,  old  chap, — I  know  you  don't  mind  my 
calling  you  that, — I've  come  for  advice.  Agatha  said 
I'd  better.  A  fellow  comes  to  a  time  when  he  says, 


150  THE  TRESPASSER. 

1  Here,  I  want  a  shop  of  my  own,'  doesn't  he  ?  He's 
seen  It,  he's  had  It  all  colours,  he's  ready  for  family 
duties,  and  the  rest.  That's  so,  isn't  it  ?  " 

Gaston  choked  back  a  laugh,  and,  purposely  put- 
ting himself  on  the  wrong  scent,  said  : 

"  And  does  Agatha  agree  ?  " 

"  Agatha  ?  Come,  Belward,  that  youngster ! 
Agatha's  only  in  on  a  sisterly-brotherly  basis.  Now, 
see :  I've  got  a  little  load  of  £  s.  d.,  and  I'm  to  get 
more,  especially  if  Uncle  Dick  keeps  on  thinking  I 
am  artless.  Well,  why  shouldn't  I  marry  ?  " 

"No  reason  against  it,  if  husband  and  father  in 
you  yearn  for  bibs  and  petticoats !  " 

"  I  say,  Belward,  don't  laugh  !  " 

"  I  never  was  more  serious.     Who  is  the  girl  ?  " 

"  She  looks  up  to  you  as  I  do — of  course  that's 
natural ;  and  if  it  comes  off,  no  one'll  have  a  jollier 
corner  chez  nous.  It's  Delia ! " 

"Delia?    Delia  who?" 

"  Why,  Delia  Gasgoyne.  I  haven't  done  the  thing 
quite  regular,  I  know.  I  ought  to  have  gone  to  her 
people  first ;  but  they  know  all  about  me,  and  so  does 
Delia,  and  I'm  on  the  spot,  and  it  wouldn't  look  well 
to  be  taking  advantage  of  that  with  her  father  and 
mother — they'd  feel  bound  to  be  hospitable  !  So  I've 
just  gone  on  my  own  tack,  and  I've  come  to  Agatha 
and  you.  Agatha  said,  to  ask  you  if  I'd  better  speak 
to  Delia  now." 


HE  COMES  TO  "THE  WAKING  OP  THE  FIRE."    151 

"  My  dear  Cluny,  are  you  very  much  in  love  ?  " 

"  That  sounds  religious,  doesn't  it — a  kind  of  Non- 
conformist business?  I  think  she's  the  very  finest! 
and  a  fellow'd  hold  himself  up,  'd  be  a  deuce  of  a 
swell, — and,  hang  it  all,  I  hate  breakfasting  alone ! " 

"  Yes,  yes,  Cluny ;  but  what  about  a  pew  in 
church,  with  regular  attendance,  and  a  justice  of  the 
peace,  and  little  Cluny  Vosses  on  the  carpet  ?  " 

Cluny's  face  went  crimson. 

"I  say,  Belward,  I've  seen  It  all,  of  course;  I 
know  It  backwards,  and  I'm  not  squeamish,  but  that 
sounds — flippant — that,  with  her ! " 

Gaston  reached  out  and  caught  the  boy's  shoulder. 

"  Don't  do  it,  Cluny.  Spare  yourself.  It  couldn't 
come  off.  Agatha  knows  that,  I  fancy.  She  is  a 
little  sportsman.  I  might  let  you  go  and  speak ;  but 
I  think  my  chances  are  better  than  yours,  Cluny. 
Hadn't  you  better  let  me  try  first?  Then,  if  I  fail, 
your  chances  are  still  the  same,  eh  ?  " 

Cluny  gasped.  His  warm  face  went  pale,  then"  shot 
to  purple,  and  finally  settled  into  a  grey  ruddiness. 

"  Belward,"  he  said  at  last,  "  I  didn't  know ;  upon 
my  soul,  I  didn't  know,  or  I'd  have  cut  off  my  head 
first!" 

"  My  dear  Cluny,  you  shall  have  your  chance ;  but 
let  me  go  first,  I'm  older." 

"Belward,  don't  take  me  for  a  fool!  Why,  my 
trying  what  you  go  to  do  is  like— is  like " 


152  THE  TRESPASSER. 

Cluny's  similes  failed  to  come. 

"  Like  a  fox  and  a  deer  on  the  same  trail  ?  " 

"I  don't  understand  that.  Like  a  yeomanry 
steeplechase  to  Sandown — is  that  it?  Belward,  I'm 
sorry.  Playing  it  so  low  on  a  chap  you  like !  " 

"  Don't  say  a  word,  Cluny ;  and,  believe  me,  you 
haven't  yet  seen  all  of  It.  There's  plenty  of  time. 
When  you  really  have  had  It,  you  will  learn  to  say 
of  a  woman,  not  that  she's  the  very  finest,  and  that 
you  hate  breakfasting  alone,  but  something  that'll 
turn  your  hair  white,  or  keep  you  looking  forty  when 
you're  sixty." 

That  evening  Gaston  dressed  with  unusual  care. 
When  he  entered  the  drawing-room,  he  looked  as 
handsome  as  a  man  need  in  this  world.  His  illness 
had  refined  his  features  and  form,  and  touched  off 
his  cheerfulness  with  a  fine  melancholy.  Delia  glowed 
as  she  saw  the  admiring  glances  sent  his  way,  but 
burned  with  anger  when  she  also  saw  that  he  was  to 
take  in  Lady  Gravesend  to  dinner ;  for  Lady  Graves- 
end  had  spoken  slightingly  of  Gaston — had,  indeed, 
referred  to  his  "  nigger  blood  !  "  And  now  her  mother 
had  sent  her  in  to  dinner  on  his  arm,  she  affable,  too 
affable  by  a  great  deal.  Had  she  heard  the  dry  and 
subtle  suggestion  of  Gaston's  talk,  she  would,  how- 
ever, have  justified  her  mother. 

About  half -past  nine  Delia  was  in  the  doorway, 
talking  to  one  of  the  guests,  who,  at  the  call  of  some- 


HE  COMES  TO  "THE  WAKING  OF  THE  FIRE."    153 

one  else,  suddenly  left  her.  She  heard  a  voice  be- 
hind her. 

"Will  you  not  sing?" 

She  thrilled,  and  turned  to  say : 

"  What  shall  I  sing,  Mr.  Belward?" 

"The  song  I  taught  you  the  other  day — 'The 
Waking  of  the  Fire.'  " 

"  But  I've  never  sung  it  before  anybody." 

"Do  I  not  count? — But  that's  unfair!  Believe 
me,  you  sing  it  very  well." 

She  lifted  her  eyes  to  his : 

"  You  do  not  pay  compliments,  and  I  believe  you. 
Your  '  very  well '  means  much.  If  you  say  so,  I  will 
do  my  best." 

"I  say  so.  You  are  amenable. — Is  that  your 
mood  to-night  ?  "  He  smiled  brightly. 

Her  eyes  flashed  with  a  sweet  malice. 

"  I  am  not  at  all  sure.  It  depends  on  how  your 
command  to  sing  is  justified." 

"  You  cannot  help  but  sing  well." 

"Why?" 

"  Because  I  will  help  you — make  you." 

This  startled  her  ever  so  little.  Was  there  some 
fibre  of  cruelty  in  him?  some  evil  in  this  influence 
he  had  over  her  ?  She  shrank,  and  yet  again  she  said 
that  she  would  rather  have  his  cruelty  than  another 
man's  tenderness,  so  long  as  she  knew  that  she  had 

his She  paused,  and  did  not  say  the  word.     She 

11 


154  THE  TRESPASSER. 

met  his  eyes  steadily, — their  concentration  dazed  her 
— and  said  almost  coldly,  her  voice  sounding  far  away : 

"  How,  make  me  ?  " 

"  How  fine !  how  proud  !  "  he  said  to  himself,  then 
added  :  "  I  meant  '  make  '  in  the  helpful  sense.  I 
know  the  song  :  I've  heard  it  sung,  I've  sung  it ;  I've 
taught  you  ;  my  mind  will  act  on  yours,  and  you  will 
sing  it  well." 

"  Won't  you  sing  it  yourself  ?    Do,  please." 

"  No  ;  to-night  I  wish  to  hear  you." 

"  Why  ?  " 

"  I  will  tell  you  later.  Can  you  play  the  accom- 
paniment ?  If  not,  I " 

"  Oh,  will  you  ?  I  could  sing  it  then,  I  think. 
You  played  it  so  beautifully  the  other  day — with  all 
those  strange  chords." 

He  smiled. 

"  It  is  one  of  the  few  things  that  I  can  play.  I  al- 
ways had  a  taste  for  music ;  and  up  in  one  of  the  forts 
there  was  an  old  melodeon,  so  I  hammered  away  for 
years.  I  had  to  learn  difficult  things  at  the  start,  or 
none  at  all,  or  else  those  I  improvised ;  and  that's  how 
I  can  play  one  or  two  of  Beethoven's  symphonies  pret- 
ty well,  and  this  song,  and  a  few  others,  and  go  a 
cropper  with  a  waltz.  Will  you  come  ?  " 

They  moved  to  the  piano.  No  one  at  first  noticed 
them.  When  he  sat  down,  he  said  : 

"  You  remember  the  words  ?  " 


HE  COMES  TO  "THE  WAKING  OF  THE  FIRE."    155 

"  Yes,  I  learned  them  by  heart." 

"  Good ! " 

He  gently  struck  the  chords.  His  gentleness  had, 
however,  a  firmness,  a  deep  persuasiveness,  which  drew 
every  face  like  a  call.  A  few  chords  waving,  as  it 
were,  over  the  piano,  and  then  he  whispered : 

"  Now  ! " 

"  Oh !  go  on  for  a  minute  longer,"  she  begged. 
"  My  throat  feels  dry  all  at  once." 

"  Face  away  from  the  rest,  towards  me,"  he  said 
gently. 

She  did  so.  His  voice  took  a  note  softly,  and  held 
it.  Presently  her  voice  as  softly  joined  it,  his  stopped, 
and  hers  went  on  : 

"  In  the  lodge  of  the  Mother  of  Men, 
In  the  land  of  Desire, 
Are  the  embers  of  fire, 
Are  the  ashes  of  those  who  return, 
Who  return  to  the  world  : 
Who  flame  at  the  breath 
Of  the  Mockers  of  Death.— 
O  Sweet,  we  will  voyage  again 
To  the  camp  of  Love's  fire, 
Nevermore  to  return ! " 

"How  am  I  doing?"  she  said  at  the  end  of  this 
verse. 

She  really  did  not  know — her  voice  seemed  an  end- 
less distance  away.  But  she  felt  the  stillness  in  the 
drawing-room. 


156  THE  TRESPASSER. 

"  Well !  "  he  said.  "  Now  for  the  other.  Don't 
be  afraid  ;  let  your  voice,  let  yourself,  go." 

"  I  can't  let  myself  go." 

"  Yes,  you  can  :  just  swim  with  the  music." 

She  did  swim  with  it.  Never  before  had  Pepping- 
ham  drawing-room  heard  a  song  like  this  ;  never  be- 
fore, never  after,  did  any  of  Delia  Gasgoyne's  friends 
hear  her  sing  as  she  did  that  night.  And  Lady 
Gravesend  whispered  for  a  week  afterwards  that  Delia 
Gasgoyne  sang  a  wild  love  song  in  the  most  abandoned 
way  with  that  colonial  Belward. — Keally  a  song  of  the 
most  violent  sentiment ! 

There  had  been  witchery  in  it  all.  For  Gaston 
lifted  the  girl  on  the  waves  of  his  music,  and  did  what 
he  pleased  with  her,  as  she  sang : 

"  0  love,  by  the  light  of  thine  eye 
We  will  fare  oversea, 
We  will  be 

As  the  silver-winged  herons  that  rest 
By  the  shallows, 
The  shallows  of  sapphire  stone ; 
No  more  shall  we  wander  alone. 
As  the  foam  to  the  shore 
Is  my  spirit  to  thine  ; 
And  God's  serfs  as  they  fly, — 
The  Mockers  of  Death— 
They  will  breathe  on  the  embers  of  fire : 
We  shall  live  by  that  breath,— 
Sweet,  thy  heart  to  my  heart, 
As  we  journey  afar, 
No  more,  nevermore,  to  return ! " 


HE  COMES  TO  "THE  WAKING  OF  THE  FIRE."    157 

When  the  song  was  ended  there  was  silence,  then 
an  eager  murmur,  and  requests  for  more ;  but  Gaston, 
still  lengthening  the  close  of  the  accompaniment,  said 
quietly : 

"  No  more.  I  wanted  to  hear  you  sing  that  song 
only." 

He  rose. 

"  I  am  so  very  hot ! "  she  said. 

"  Come  into  the  hall." 

They  passed  into  the  long  corridor,  and  walked  up 
and  down,  for  a  time  in  silence. 

"  You  felt  that  music?"  he  asked  at  last. 

"  As  I  never  felt  music  before,"  she  replied. 

"  Do  you  know  why  I  asked  you  to  sing  it?" 

"  How  should  I  know  ?  " 

"  To  see  how  far  you  could  go  with  it." 

"How  far  did  I  go?" 

"  As  far  as  I  expected." 

"  It  was  satisfactory  ?  " 

"  Perfectly." 

"  But  why — experiment — on  me  ?  " 

"  That  I  might  see  if  you  were  not,  after  all,  as 
much  a  barbarian  as  I." 

" Am  I  ? " 

"  No.  That  was  myself  singing  as  well  as 
you.  You  did  not  enjoy  it  altogether,  did 
you?" 

"  In  a  way,  yes.    But— shall  I  be  honest  ?— I  felt, 


158  THE  TRESPASSER. 

too,  as  if,  somehow,  it  wasn't  quite  right ; — so  much — 
what  shall  I  call  it?" 

"  So  much  of  old  Adam  and  the  Garden  ? — Sit 
down  here  for  a  moment,  will  you  ?  " 

She  trembled  a  little,  and  sat. 

"  I  want  to  speak  plainly  and  honestly  to  you,"  he 
said,  looking  earnestly  at  her.  "  You  know  my  his- 
tory— about  my  wife  who  died  in  Labrador,  and  all 
the  rest?" 

"  Yes,  they  have  told  me." 

"  Well,  I  have  nothing  to  hide,  I  think ;  nothing 
more  that  you  ought  to  know :  though  I've  been  a 
scamp  one  way  and  another." 

"  «  That  I  ought  to  know  ? '  "  she  repeated. 

"  Yes :  for  when  a  man  asks  a  woman  to  be  his 
wife,  he  should  be  prepared  to  open  the  cupboard  of 
skeletons." 

She  was  silent ;  her  heart  was  beating  so  hard  that 
it  hurt  her. 

"  I  am  going  to  ask  you,  Delia,  to  be  my 
wife." 

She  was  silent,  and  sat  motionless,  her  hands 
clasped  in  her  lap. 

He  went  on : 

"  I  don't  know  that  you  will  be  wise  to  accept  me, 
but  if  you  will  take  the  risk " 

"  Oh,  Gaston  !  Gaston  !  *'  she  said,  and  her  hands 
fluttered  towards  his. 


HE  COMBS  TO  "THE  WAKING  OF  THE  FIRE."    159 

An  hour  later,  he  said  to  her,  as  they  parted  for  the 
night : 

"  I  hope,  with  all  my  heart,  that  you  will  never  re- 
pent of  it,  dear." 

"  You  can  make  me  not  repent  of  it.  It  rests  with 
you,  Gaston ;  indeed,  indeed,  all  with  you ! " 

"  Poor  girl ! "  he  said,  unconsciously,  as  he  entered 
his  room.  He  could  not  have  told  why  he  said  it. 

"  Why  will  you  always  sit  up  for  me,  Brillon  ?  "  he 
asked  a  moment  afterwards. 

Jacques  saw  that  something  had  occurred. 

"  I  have  nothing  else  to  do,  sir,"  he  replied. 

"Brillon,"  Gaston  added  presently,  "we're  in  a 
devil  of  a  scrape  now." 

"  What  shall  we  do,  monsieur?" 

"  Did  we  ever  turn  tail  ?  " 

"  Yes,  from  a  prairie  fire." 

"  Not  always.     I've  ridden  through." 

"  Alors,  it's  one  chance  in  ten  thousand ! " 

"  There's  a  woman  to  be  thought  of — Jacques." 

"  There  was  that  other  time." 

"Well,  then?" 

Presently  Jacques  said : 

"  Who  is  she,  monsieur  ?  " 

Gaston  did  not  answer.     He  was  thinking  hard. 

Jacques  said  no  more.  The  next  morning  early 
the  guests  knew  who  the  woman  was,  and  by  noon 
Jacques  also. 


CHAPTER  XL 

L 

HE  MAKES  A   GALLANT   CONQUEST. 

GASTON  let  himself  drift.  The  game  of  love  and 
marriage  is  exciting,  the  girl  was  affectionate  and  ad- 
miring, the  world  was  genial,  and  all  things  came  his 
way.  Towards  the  end  of  the  hunting-season  Captain 
Maudsley  had  an  accident.  It  would  prevent  him 
riding  to  hounds  again,  and  at  his  suggestion,  backed 
by  Lord  Dunfolly  and  Lord  Dargan,  Gaston  became 
Master  of  the  Hounds.  His  grandfather  and  great- 
grandfather had  been  Master  of  the  Hounds  before 
him.  Hunting  was  a  keen  enjoyment — one  outlet  for 
wild  life  in  him — and  at  the  last  meet  of  the  year  he 
rode  in  Captain  JMaudsley's  place.  They  had  a  good 
run,  and  the  taste  of  it  remained  with  Gaston  for 
many  a  day ;  he  thought  of  it  sometimes  as  he  rode  in 
the  Park  now  every  morning — with  Delia  and  her 
mother ! 

Jacques  and  his  broncho  came  no  more,  or  if  they 
did  it  was  at  unseasonable  hours,  and  then  to  be  often 
reprimanded  (and  twice  arrested)  for  furious  riding. 
Gaston  had  a  bad  moment  when  he  told  Jacques  that 


HE  MAKES  A  GALLANT  CONQUEST.    161 

he  need  not  come  with  him  again.  He  did  it  casually, 
but,  cool  as  he  was,  a  cold  sweat  came  on  his  cheek. 
He  had  to  take  a  little  brandy  to  steady  himself — yet 
he  had  looked  into  menacing  rifle-barrels  more  than 
once  without  a  tremor.  It  was  clear,  on  the  face  of 
it,  that  Delia  and  her  mother  should  be  his  compan- 
ions in  the  Park,  and  not  this  grave  little  half-breed ; 
but,  somehow,  it  got  on  his  nerves.  He  hesitated  for 
days  before  he  could  cast  the  die  against  Jacques.  It 
had  been  the  one  open  bond  of  the  old  life ;  yet  the 
man  was  but  a  servant,  and  to  be  treated  as  such,  and 
was,  indeed,  except  on  rarest  occasions.  If  Delia  had 
known  that  Gaston  balanced  the  matter  between  her 
and  Jacques,  her  indignation  might  perhaps  have  sent 
matters  to  a  crisis.  But  Gaston  did  the  only  possible 
thing ;  and  the  weeks  drifted  on. 

Happy  ?  It  was  inexplicable  even  to  himself  that 
at  times,  when  he  left  Delia,  he  said  unconsciously : 

"  Well,  it's  a  pity ! " 

But  she  was  happy  in  her  way.  His  dark,  mysteri- 
ous face  with  its  background  of  abstraction,  his  un- 
usual life,  distinguished  presence,  and  the  fact  that 
people  of  great  note  sought  his  conversation,  all 
strengthened  the  bonds,  and  deepened  her  imagina- 
tion; and  imagination  is  at  the  root  of  much  that 
passes  for  love.  Gaston  was  approached  at  Lord 
Dargan's  by  the  Premier  himself.  It  was  suggested 
that  he  should  stand  for  a  constituency  in  the  Con- 


162  THE  TRESPASSER. 

servative  interest.  Lord  Faramond,  himself  pictur- 
esque, acute,  with  a  keen  knowledge  of  character  and 
a  taste  for  originality,  saw  material  for  a  useful  sup- 
porter— fearless,  independent,  with  a  gift  for  saying 
ironical  things,  and  some  primitive  and  fundamental 
principles  well  digested. 

Gaston,  smiling,  said  that  he  would  only  be  a  buf- 
falo fretting  on  a  chain. 

Lord  Faramond  replied : 

"And  why  the  chain?"  He  followed  this  up 
with :  "  It  is  but  a  case  of  playing  lion-tamer  down 
there.  Have  one  little  gift  all  your  own,  know  when 
to  impose  it,  and  you  have  the  pleasure  of  feeling  that 
your  fingers  move  a  great  machine,  the  greatest  in  the 
world — yes,  the  very  greatest !  There  is  Little  Grap- 
nel just  vacant :  the  faithful  Byng  is  dead.  Come  :  if 
you  will,  I'll  send  my  secretary  to-morrow  morning — 
eh?" 

"  You  are  not  afraid  of  the  buffalo,  sir  ?  " 

Lord  Faramond's  fingers  touched  his  arm,  drummed 
it: 

"  My  greatest  need— one  to  roar  as  gently  as  the 
sucking-dove." 

"  But  what  if  I,  not  knowing  the  rules  of  the  game, 
should  think  myself  on  the  corner  of  a  veldt  or  in  an 
Indian's  tepee,  and  hit  out?" 

"  You  do  not  carry  derringers? "    He  smiled, 

«#o    but — -" 


HE  MAKES  A  GALLANT  CONQUEST.         163 

He  glanced  down  at  his  arms. 

"  Well,  well ;  that  will  come  one  day,  perhaps ! " 
Lord  Faramond  paused,  abstracted,  then  added  :  "  But 
not  through  you.  Good-bye,  then,  good-bye.  Little 
Grapnel  in  ten  days ! " 

And  it  was  so.  Little  Grapnel  was  Conservative. 
It  was  mostly  a  matter  of  nomination,  and  in  two 
weeks  Gaston,  in  a  kind  of  dream,  went  down  to  West- 
minster, lunched  with  Lord  Faramond,  and  was  intro- 
duced to  the  House.  The  Ladies  Gallery  was  full, 
for  the  matter  was  in  all  the  papers,  and  a  pretty  sen- 
sation had  been  worked  up  one  way  and  another. 

That  night,  after  dinner,  Gaston  rose  to  make  his 
maiden  speech  on  a  bill  dealing  with  an  imminent  so- 
cial question.  He  was  not  an  amateur.  Time  upon 
time  he  had  addressed  gatherings  in  the  North,  and 
had  once  stood  at  the  bar  of  the  Canadian  Commons 
to  plead  the  cause  of  the  Half-breeds.  He  was  pale, 
but  firm,  and  looked  striking.  His  eyes  went  slowly 
round  the  House,  and  he  began  in  a  low,  clear,  delib- 
erate voice,  which  got  attention  at  once.  The  first 
sentence  was,  however,  a  surprise  to  every  one,  and  not 
the  least  to  his  own  party,  excepting  Lord  Faramond. 
He  disclaimed  detailed  and  accurate  knowledge  of  the 
subject.  He  said  this  with  an  honesty  which  took 
away  the  breath  of  the  House.  In  a  quiet,  easy  tone 
he  then  referred  to  what  had  been  previously  said  in 
the  debate. 


164  THE  TRESPASSER. 

The  first  thing  he  did  was  to  crumble  away  with  a 
regretful  kind  of  superiority  the  arguments  of  two 
Conservative  speakers;  to  the  sudden  amusement  of 
the  Opposition,  who  presently  cheered  him.  He  looked 
up  as  though  a  little  surprised,  waited  patiently,  and 
went  on.  The  iconoclasm  proceeded.  He  had  one  or 
two  fixed  ideas  in  his  mind,  simple  principles  on  social 
questions  of  which  he  had  spoken  to  his  leader,  and  he 
never  wavered  from  the  sight  of  them,  though  he  had 
yet  to  state  them.  The  Premier  sat,  head  cocked,  with 
an  ironical  smile  at  the  cheering,  but  he  was  wonder- 
ing whether,  after  all,  his  man  was  sure ;  whether  he 
could  stand  this  fire,  and  reverse  his  engine  quite  as 
he  intended.  One  of  the  previous  speakers  was  furi- 
ous, came  over  and  appealed  to  Lord  Faramond,  who 
merely  said,  "  Wait." 

Gaston  kept  on.  The  flippant  amusement  of  the 
Opposition  continued.  Something,  however,  in  his 
grim  steadiness  began  to  impress  his  own  party  as  the 
other,  while  from  the  Ladies  Gallery  and  the  Strangers 
Gallery  there  came  a  low  murmur  of  sympathy.  His 
courage,  his  stone-cold  strength,  the  disdain  which 
was  coming  into  his  voice,  impressed  them,  apart  from 
his  arguments  or  its  bearing  on  the  previous  debate. 
The  House  heard  that  low  murmur  from  the  galleries, 
and  looked  up.  Then  there  came  a  striking  silence, 
for  Gaston  paused.  He  also  looked  to  the  galleries. 
As  if  in  a  dream — for  his  brain  was  working  with 


HE  MAKES  A  GALLANT  CONQUEST.    165 

clear,  painful  power — lie  saw,  not  Delia  nor  her 
mother,  nor  Lady  Dargan,  but  Alice  Wingfield  and 
her  grandfather !  He  had  a  sting,  a  rush  in  his  blood. 
He  felt  that  none  had  an  interest  in  him  such  as  she  : 
shamed,  sorrowful,  denied  the  compensating  comfort 
which  his  brother's  love  might  give  her.  Her  face, 
looking  through  the  carved  barriers,  pale,  glowing, 
anxious,  almost  weird,  seemed  set  to  the  bars  of  a  cage. 

Gaston  turned  upon  the  House,  and  flashed  a 
glance  at  Lord  Faramond.  The  Premier  smiled.  He 
began  slowly  to  pit  against  his  former  startling  ad- 
missions the  testimony  of  his  few  principles,  and  to 
buttress  them  on  every  side  with  apposite  observations, 
naive,  pungent.  Presently  there  came  a  poignant  edge 
to  his  trailing  tones.  After  giving  the  subject  new 
points  of  view,  showing  him  to  have  studied  White- 
chapel  as  well  as  Kicking  Horse  Pass,  he  contended 
that  no  social  problem  could  be  solved  by  a  bill  so 
crudely  radical,  so  impractical. 

He  was  saying :  "  In  the  history  of  the  British 
Parliament "  when  some  angry  member  cried  out : 

"  Who  coached  you  ?  " 

Gaston's  quick  eye  found  the  man. 

"  Once,"  he  answered  instantly,  "  one  honourable 
gentleman  asked  that  of  another  in  King  Charles' 
Parliament,  and  the  reply  then  is  mine — '  You,  sir  ! " 

"  How  ?  "  returned  the  puzzled  member. 

Gaston  smiled  with  amiable  disdain  : 


166  THE  TRESPASSER. 

"The  spur  of  the  honourable  gentleman's  neces- 
sity ! " 

The  game  was  in  his  hands.  Lord  Faramond 
twisted  a  shoulder  with  satisfaction,  tossed  a  whim- 
sical look  down  the  line  of  the  Treasury  Bench,  and 
from  that  Bench  came  unusual  applause. 

"  Where  the  devil  did  he  get  it  ?  "  queried  a  Min- 
ister. 

"  Out  on  the  buffalo-trail ! "  replied  Lord  Fara- 
mond. "  Good  fellow !  " 

In  the  Ladies  Gallery,  Delia  clasped  her  mother's 
hand  with  delight ;  in  the  Strangers  Gallery,  a  man 
said  softly  :  «  Not  so  bad,  Cadet ! " 

Alice  Wingfield's  face  had  a  light  of  aching  pleas- 
ure. "  Gaston !  Gaston  ! "  she  said,  in  a  whisper  heard 
only  by  her  grandfather,  who,  sitting  back,  watched 
her  affectionately,  anxiously. 

Gaston  made  his  last  effort  in  a  comparison  of  the 
state  of  the  English  people  now  and  before  she  be- 
came Cromwell's  Commonwealth,  and  then  incisively 
traced  the  social  development  onwards.  It  was  the 
work  of  a  man  with  a  dramatic  nature  and  a  mathe- 
matical turn.  He  put  the  time,  the  manners,  the 
movements,  the  men,  as  in  a  picture. 

Presently  he  grew  scornful.  His  words  came 
hotly,  like  whip-lashes.  He  rose  to  force  and  power, 
though  his  voice  was  never  loud,  rather  concentrated, 
resonant.  It  dropped  suddenly  to  a  tone  of  persua- 


HE  MAKES  A  GALLANT  CONQUEST. 

siveness  and  conciliation,  and  declaring  that  the  bill 
would  be  merely  vicious  where  it  meant  to  be  virtuous, 
ended  with  the  question  : 

"  Shall  we  burn  the  house  to  roast  the  pig  ?  " 

"That  sounds  American,"  said  the  member  for 
Burton-Halsey,  "but  he  hasn't  an  accent.  Pig  is 
vulgar  though — vulgar." 

"  Make  it  Lamb — make  it  Lamb  ! "  urged  his 
neighbour. 

Meanwhile  both  sides  applauded.  Maiden  speeches 
like  this  were  not  common.  A  seat  was  empty — 
whether  of  purpose  or  not,  who  can  say  ? — beside  Lord 
Faramond.  He  caught  Gaston's  eye.  Gaston  came. 

"  Most  excellent  buffalo  ! "  he  said.  "  One  day  we 
will  chain  you — to  the  Treasury  Bench." 

Gaston  smiled. 

"  You  are  thought  prudent,  sir  !  " 

"  Ah  !  an  enemy  hath  said  this !  " 

Gaston  looked  towards  the  Ladies  Gallery.  De- 
lia's eyes  were  on  him;  Alice  was  gone. 

A  half -hour  later  he  stood  in  the  lobby,  waiting 
for  Mrs.  Gasgoyne,  Lady  Dargan,  and  Delia  to  come. 
He  had  had  congratulations  in  the  House;  he  was 
having  them  now.  Presently  someone  touched  him 
on  the  arm. 

"Not  so  bad,  Cadet!" 

Gaston  turned  and  saw  his  uncle.  They  shook 
hands. 


168  THE  TRESPASSER. 

"  YouVe  a  gift  that  way,"  Ian  Belward  continued, 
"  but  to  what  good  ?  Bless  you,  the  pot  on  the  crack- 
ling thorns !  Don't  you  find  it  all  pretty  hollow  ?  " 

Gaston  was  feeling  reaction  from  the  nervous 
work. 

"  It  is  exciting." 

"  Yes,  but  you'll  never  have  it  again  as  to-night. 
The  place  reeks  with  smugness,  vanity,  and  drudgery. 
It's  only  the  swells — Derby,  Gladstone,  and  the  few — 
who  get  any  real  sport  out  of  it.  I  can  show  you  much 
more  amusing  things." 

"For  instance?" 

"  *  Hast  thou  forgotten  me  ? '  You  hungered  for 
Paris  and  Art  and  the  joyous  life.  Well,  I'm  ready. 
I  want  you.  Paris,  too,  is  waiting,  and  a  good  cuisine 
in  a  cheery  menage.  Sup  with  me  at  the  Garrick,  and 
I'll  tell  you.  Come  along.  Quis  separabit  9  " 

"  I  have  to  wait  for  Mrs.  Gasgoyne — and  Delia." 

"Delia!  Delia!  Goddess  of  proprieties,  has  it 
come  to  that ! " 

He  saw  a  sudden  glitter  In  Gaston's  eyes,  and 
changed  his  tone. 

"  Well,  an'  a  man  will  he  will,  and  he  must  be 
wished  good-luck.  So,  good-luck  to  you !  I'm  sorry, 
though,  for  that  cuisine  in  Paris,  and  the  grand  pic- 
nic at  Fontainebleau,  and  Moban  and  Cerise,  But  it 
can't  be  helped ! " 

He  eyed  Gaston  curiously.     Gaston  was  not  in  the 


HE  MAKES  A  GALLANT  CONQUEST.    169 

least  deceived.  His  uncle  continued :  "But  you  will 
have  supper  with  me  just  the  same  ?  " 

Gaston  consented,  and  at  this  point  the  ladies  ap- 
peared. He  had  a  thrill  of  pleasure  at  hearing  their 
praises,  but,  somehow,  of  all  the  fresh  experiences  he 
had  had  in  England,  this,  the  weightiest,  left  him 
least  elated.  He  had  now  had  it  all :  the  reaction 
was  begun,  and  he  knew  it ! 

"Well,  Ian  Bel  ward,  what  mischief  are  you  at 
now  ?  "  said  Mrs.  Gasgoyne. 

"A  picture  merely,  and  to  offer  homage.  How 
have  you  tamed  our  lion,  and  how  sweetly  does  he 
roar !  I  feed  him  at  my  Club  to-night." 

"  Ian  Belward,  you  are  never  so  wicked  as  when 
you  ought  most  to  be  decent ! — I  wish  I  knew  your 
place  in  this  picture,"  she  added  brusquely. 

"Merely  a  little  corner  at  their  fireside."  He 
nodded  towards  Delia  and  Gaston. 

"  The  man  has  sense,  and  Delia  is  my  daughter !" 

"  Precisely  why  I  wish  a  place  in  their  affections." 

"Why  don't  you  marry  one  of  the  women  you 
have — spoiled,  and  spend  the  rest  of  your  time  in  liv- 
ing yourself  down?  You  are  getting  old." 

"  For  their  own  sakes,  I  don't.  Put  that  to  my 
credit.  I'll  have  but  one  mistress  only  as  the  sand 
gets  low.  I've  been  true  to  her." 

"  You,  true  to  anything ! " 

"  The  world  has  said  so." 
12 


170  THE  TRESPASSER. 

"  Nonsense  !    You  couldn't  be." 

"  Visit  my  new  picture  in  three  months — my  big- 
gest thing.  You  will  say  my  mistress  fares  well  at 
my  hands." 

"  Mere  talk.  I  have  seen  your  mistress,  and  be- 
fore every  picture  I  have  thought  of  those  women !  A 
thing  cannot  be  good  at  your  price  :  so  don't  talk  that 
sentimental  stuff  to  me." 

"  Be  original ;  you  said  that  to  me  thirty  years 
ago." 

"  I  remember  perfectly :  that  did  not  require 
much  sense." 

"  No  ;  you  tossed  it  off,  as  it  were.  Yet  I'd  have 
made  you  a  good  husband.  You  are  the  most  inter- 
esting woman  I've  ever  met." 

"The  compliment  is  not  remarkable.  Now,  Ian 
Belward,  don't  try  to  say  clever  things.  And  reinem^ 
ber  that  I  will  have  no  mischief -making ! " 

"  At  thy  command " 

"  Oh !  cease  acting,  and  take  Sophie  to  her  car- 
riage." 

Two  hours  later,  Delia  Gasgoyne  sat  in  her  bed- 
room wondering  at  Gaston's  abstraction  during  the 
drive  home.  Yet  she  had  a  proud  elation  at  his  suc- 
cess, and  a  happy  tear  came  to  her  eye. 

Meanwhile  Gaston  was  supping  with  his  uncle. 
Ian  was  in  excellent  spirits :  brilliant,  caustic,  genial, 
suggestive.  After  a  little  while  Gaston  rose  to  the 


HE  MAKES  A  GALLANT  CONQUEST. 

temper  of  his  hast.  Already  the  scene  in  the  Com- 
mons was  fading  from  him,  and  when  Ian  proposed 
Paris  immediately,  he  did  not  demur.  The  season 
was  nearly  over,  Ian  said ;  very  well,  why  remain  ? 
His  attendance  at  the  House  ?  Well,  it  would  soon 
be  up  for  the  session.  Besides,  the  most  effective 
thing  he  could  do  was  to  disappear  for  the  time.  Be 
unexpected— that  was  the  key  to  notoriety.  Delia  Gas- 
goyne  ?  Well,  as  Gaston  had  said,  they  were  to  meet 
in  the  Mediterranean  in  September ;  meanwhile  a  brief 
separation  would  be  good  for  both.  Last  of  all — 
he  did  not  wish  to  press  it — but  there  was  a  prom- 
ise! 

Gaston  answered  quietly,  at  last : 

"  I  will  redeem  the  promise." 

"When?" 

"  Within  thirty-six  hours." 

"  That  is,  you  will  be  at  my  studio  in  Paris  within 
thirty-six  hours  from  now  ?  " 

"  That  is  it." 

"  Good !  I  shall  start  at  eight  to-morrow  morning. 
You  will  bring  your  horse,  Cadet  ?  " 

"  Yes,  and  Brillon." 

"  He  isn't  necessary."    lan's  brow  clouded  slightly. 

"  Absolutely  necessary." 

"  A  fantastic  little  beggar.  You  can  get  a  better 
valet  in  France.  Why  have  one  at  all  ?  I  don't,  and 
I'm  to  have  the  title  !  " 


172  THE  TRESPASSER. 

"I  shall  not  decline  from  Brillon  on  a  Parisian 
valet.  Besides,  he  comes  as  my  good  comrade." 

"Goth!  Goth!  My  friend  the  valet!  Cadet, 
you're  a  wonderful  fellow,  but  you'll  never  fit  in 
quite." 

"  I  don't  wish  to  fit  in ;  things  must  fit  me." 

Ian  smiled  to  himself. 

"  He  has  tasted  it  all — it's  not  quite  satisfying — 
revolution  next !  What  a  smash-up  there'll  be  !  The 
romantic,  the  barbaric  overlaps.  Well,  I  shall  get  my 
picture  out  of  it,  and  the  estate  too." 

Gaston  toyed  with  his  wine-glass,  and  was  deep  in 
thought.  Strange  to  say,  he  was  seeing  two  pictures . 
— The  tomb  of  Sir  Gaston  in  the  little  church  at 
Ridley :  A  gipsy's  van  on  the  crest  of  a  common,  and 
a  girl  standing  in  the  doorway. 


CHAPTER  XII. 

HE   STANDS   BETWEEN   TWO   WORLDS. 

THE  next  morning  he  went  down  to  the  family 
solicitor's  office.  He  had  done  so,  off  and  on,  for 
weeks.  He  spent  the  time  in  looking  through  old 
family  papers,  fishing  out  ancient  documents,  partly 
out  of  curiosity,  partly  from  an  unaccountable  pre- 
sentiment. He  had  been  there  about  an  hour  this 
morning  when  a  clerk  brought  him  a  small  box, 
which,  he  said,  had  been  found  inside  another  box 
belonging  to  the  Belward-Staplings,  a  distant  branch 
of  the  family.  These  had  asked  for  certain  ancient 
papers  lately,  and  a  search  had  been  made,  with  this 
result.  The  little  box  was  not  locked,  and  the  key 
was  in  it.  How  the  accident  occurred  was  not  diffi- 
cult to  imagine.  Generations  ago  there  had  probably 
been  a  conference  of  the  two  branches  of  the  family, 
and  the  clerk  had  inadvertently  locked  the  one  box 
within  the  other.  This  particular  box  of  the  Belward- 
Staplings  was  not  needed  again.  Gaston  felt  that 
here  was  something.  These  hours  spent  among  old 
papers  had  given  him  strange  sensations,  had,  on  the 


174  THE  TRESPASSER. 

one  hand,  shown  him  his  heritage ;  but  had  also  filled 
him  with  the  spirit  of  that  bygone  time.  He  had 
grown  further  away  from  the  present.  He  had  played 
his  part  as  in  a  drama :  his  real  life  was  in  the  distant 
past  and  out  in  the  land  of  the  heathen. 

Now  he  took  out  a  bundle  of  papers  with  broken 
seals,  and  wound  with  a  faded  tape.  He  turned  the 
rich  important  parchments  over  in  his  hands.  He 
saw  his  own  name  on  the  outside  of  one :  "  Sir  Gas- 
ton  Robert  Bel  ward."  And  there  was  added :  "  Bart." 
He  laughed.  Well,  why  not  complete  the  reproduc- 
tion? He  was  an  M.  P. — why  not  a  Baronet?  He 
knew  how  it  was  done.  There  were  a  hundred  ways. 
Throw  himself  into  the  arbitration  question  between 
Canada  and  the  United  States :  spend  ten  thousand 
pounds  of — his  grandfather's — money  on  an  election  ? 
His  reply  to  himself  was  cynical :  the  game  was  not 
worth  the  candle.  What  had  he  got  out  of  it  all? 
Money  ?  Yes  :  and  he  enjoyed  that — the  power  that 
it  gave — thoroughly.  The  rest  ?  He  knew  that  it  did 
not  strike  as  deep  as  it  ought :  the  family  tradition, 
the  social  scheme — the  girl. 

"  What  a  brute  I  am ! "  he  said.  "  I'm  never 
wholly  of  it.  I  either  want  to  do  as  they  did  when 
George  Villiers  had  his  innings,  or  play  the  gipsy  as 
I  did  so  many  years." 

The  gipsy !  As  he  held  the  papers  in  his  hand  he 
thought  as  he  had  done  last  night,  of  the  gipsy- van  on 


HE  STANDS  BETWEEN  TWO  WORLDS. 

Ridley  Common,  and  of — how  well  he  remembered  her 
name ! — of  Andree. 

He  suddenly  threw  his  head  back,  and  laughed. 

"  My  God,  but  it  is  droll !  Last  night,  an  English 
gentleman,  an  honourable  member  with  the  Treasury 
Bench  in  view;  this  morning  an  adventurer,  a  Ro- 
many. I  itch  for  change.  And  why  ?  Why  ?  I  have 
it  all,  yet  I  could  pitch  it  away  this  moment  for  a  wild 
night  on  the  Slope,  or  a  nigger  hunt  on  the  Rivas. 
Chdteau-Leoville,  Goulet,  and  Havanas  at  a  bob? — 
Jove,  I  thirst  for  a  swig  of  raw  Bourbon  and  the  bite 
of  a  penny  Mexican !  Games,  Gaston,  games  !  Why  the 
devil  did  little  Joe  worry  at  being  made  '  move  on '  ? 
I've  got  *  move  on '  in  every  pore :  the  Wandering  Jew. 
Oh,  a  gentleman  born  am  I !  But  the  Romany  sweats 
from  every  inch  of  you,  Gaston  Belward  !  What  was 
it  that  sailor  on  the  Cyprian  said  of  the  other  ? — '  For 
every  hair  of  him  was  rope-yarn,  and  every  drop  of 
blood  Stockolm  tar ! ' 

He  opened  a  paper.  Immediately  he  was  interested. 
Another ;  then,  quickly,  two  more ;  and  at  last,  getting 
to  his  feet  with  an  exclamation,  he  held  a  document  to 
the  light,  and  read  it  through  carefully.  He  was  alone 
in  the  room.  He  calmly  folded  it  up,  put  it  in  his 
pocket,  placed  the  rest  of  the  papers  back,  locked  the 
box,  and  passing  into  the  next  room,  gave  it  to  the 
clerk.  Then  he  went  out,  a  curious  smile  on  his  face. 
He  stopped  presently  on  the  pavement. 


176  THE  TRESPASSEE. 

"  But  it  wouldn't  hold  good,  I  fancy,  after  all  these 
years.  Yet  Law  is  a  queer  business.  Anyhow,  I've 
got  it." 

An  hour  later  he  called  on  Mrs.  Gasgoyne  and  Delia. 
Mrs.  Gasgoyne  was  not  at  home.  After  a  little  while, 
Gaston,  having  listened  to  some  extracts  from  the  news- 
papers upon  his  "  brilliant,  powerful,  caustic  speech, 
infinite  in  promise  of  an  important  career,"  quietly  told 
her  that  he  was  starting  for  Paris,  and  asked  when 
they  expected  to  go  abroad  in  their  yacht.  Delia  turned 
pale,  and  could  not  answer  for  a  moment.  Then  she 
became  very  still,  and  as  quietly  answered  that  they  ex- 
pected to  get  away  by  the  middle  of  August.  He  would 
join  them  ?  Yes,  certainly,  at  Marseilles,  or,  perhaps, 
Gibraltar.  Her  manner,  so  well-controlled,  though  her 
features  seemed  to  shrink  all  at  once,  if  it  did  not  de- 
ceive him,  gave  him  the  wish  to  say  an  affectionate 
thing.  He  took  her  hand  and  said  it.  She  thanked 
him,  then  suddenly  dropped  her  fingers  on  his  shoulder, 
and  murmured  with  infinite  gentleness  and  pride : 

"  You  will  miss  me ;  you  ought  to  ! " 

He  drew  the  hand  down. 

"  I  could  not  forget  you,  Delia,"  he  said. 

Her  eyes  came  up  quickly,  and  she  looked  steadily, 
wonderingly,  at  him. 

"  Was  it  necessary  to  say  that  ?  " 

She  was  hurt — inexpressibly, — and  she  shrank.  He 
saw  that  she  misunderstood  him ;  but  he  also  saw  that, 


HE  STANDS  BETWEEN  TWO  WORLDS.       177 

on  the  face  of  it,  the  phrase  was  not  complimentary. 
His  reply  was  deeply  kind,  effective.  There  was  a 
pause — and  the  great  moment  for  them  both  passed ! 
Something  ought  to  have  happened.  It  did  not.  If 
she  had  had  that  touch  of  abandon  shown  when  she 
sang  "  The  Waking  of  the  Fire,"  Gaston  might,  even  at 
this  moment,  have  broken  his  promise  to  his  uncle ; 
but,  somehow,  he  knew  himself  slipping  away  from 
her.  With  the  tenderness  he  felt,  he  still  knew  that 
he  was  acting ;  imitating,  reproducing  other,  better, 
moments  with  her.  He  felt  the  disrespect  to  her,  but 
it  could  not  be  helped — it  could  not  be  helped ! 

He  said  that  he  would  call  and  say  good-bye  to  her 
and  Mrs.  Gasgoyne  at  four  o'clock.  Then  he  left. 
He  went  to  his  chambers,  gave  Jacques  instructions, 
did  some  writing,  and  returned  at  four.  Mrs.  Gas- 
goyne had  not  come  back.  She  had  telegraphed  that 
she  would  not  be  in  for  lunch.  There  was  nothing 
remarkable  in  Gaston's  and  Delia's  farewell.  She 
thought  he  looked  worn,  and  ought  to  have  change, 
showing  in  every  word  that  she  trusted  him,  and  was 
anxious  that  he  should  be,  as  she  put  it  gaily,  "  comfy." 
She  was  composed.  The  cleverest  men  are  blind  in 
the  matter  of  a  woman's  affections ;  and  Gaston  was 
only  a  mere  man,  after  all.  He  thought  that  she  had 
gone  about  as  far  in  the  way  of  feeling  as  she  could  go. 
Nevertheless,  in  his  hansom,  he  frowned,  and  said  : 
"  I  oughtn't  to  go.  But  I'm  choking  here.  I  can't 


ITS  .THE  TRESPASSER. 

play  the  game  an  hour  longer  without  a  change.  I'll 
come  back  all  right.  I'll  meet  her  in  the  Mediterra- 
nean, after  my  kick-up,  and  it'll  be  all  0.  K.  Jacques 
and  I  will  ride  down  through  Spain  to  Gibraltar,  and 
meet  the  Kismet  there.  I  shall  have  got  rid  of  this 
restlessness  then,  and  I'll  be  glad  enough  to  settle 
down,  pose  for  throne  and  constitution,  cultivate  the 
olive  branch,  and  have  family  prayers." 

At  eight  o'clock  he  appeared  at  Ridley  Court,  and 
bade  his  grandfather  and  grandmother  good-bye. 
They  were  full  of  pride,  and  showed  their  affection  in 
indirect  ways, — Sir  William  most  by  offering  his  opin- 
ion on  the  Bill  and  quoting  Gaston  frequently ;  Lady 
Belward,  by  saying  that  next  year  she  would  certainly 
go  up  to  town — she  had  not  done  so  for  five  years ! 
They  both  agreed  that  a  scamper  on  the  Continent 
would  now  be  good  for  him.  At  nine  o'clock  he  passed 
the  rectory,  on  his  way,  strange  to  note,  to  the  church. 
There  was  one  light  burning,  but  it  was  not  in  the 
study  nor  in  Alice's  window.  He  supposed  they  had 
not  returned.  He  paused  and  thought.  If  anything 
happened,  she  should  know. — What  should  happen? 
He  shook  his  head.  He  moved  on  to  the  church. 
The  doors  were  unlocked.  He  went  in,  drew  out 
a  little  pocket-lantern,  lit  it,  and  walked  up  the 
aisle. 

"  A  sentimental  business  this :  I  don't  know  why 
I  do  it,"  he  thought. 


HE  STANDS  BETWEEN  TWO  WORLDS.       179 

He  stopped  at  the  tomb  of  Sir  Gaston  Belward, 
put  his  hand  on  it,  and  stood  looking  at  it. 

"I  wonder  if  there  is  anything  in  it?"  he  said 
aloud  :  "  if  he  does  influence  me  ?  if  we've  got  any- 
thing to  do  with  each  other  ?  "What  he  did  I  seem  to 
know  somehow,  more  or  less.  A  little  dwarf  up  in  my 
brain  drops  the  nuts  down  now  and  then.  Well,  Sir 
Gaston  Belward,  what  is  going  to  be  the  end  of  all 
this?  If  we  can  reach  across  the  centuries,  why, 
good-night  and  good-bye  to  you !  Good-bye  !  " 

He  turned  and  went  down  the  aisle.  At  the  door 
a  voice,  a  whispering  voice,  floated  to  him : 

"  Good-bye ! " 

He  stopped  short  and  listened.  All  was  still.  He 
walked  up  the  aisle,  and  listened  'again. — Nothing ! 
He  stood  before  the  tomb,  looking  at  it  curiously.  He 
was  pale,  but  collected.  He  raised  the  light  above  his 
head,  and  looked  towards  the  altar. — Nothing ! 

Then  he  went  to  the  door  again,  and  paused. — 
Nothing ! 

Outside  he  said  : 

"  I'd  stake  my  life  I  heard  it !  " 

A  few  minutes  afterwards,  a  girl  rose  up  from  be- 
hind the  organ  in  the  chancel,  and  felt  her  way  out- 
side. It  was  Alice  Wingfield,  who  had  gone  to  pray 
in  the  church.  It  was  her  good-bye  that  had  floated 
down  to  Gaston. 


CHAPTER  XIII. 

HE  JOURKEYS  AFAR. 

THE  newspapers  gossiped.  Where  was  the  new 
member?  His  friends  could  not  tell,  further  than  that 
he  had  gone  abroad.  Lord  Faramond  did  not  know, 
but  fetched  out  his  lower  lip  knowingly. 

"  The  fellow  has  instinct  for  the  game,"  he  said. 

Sketches,  portraits  were  in  the  daily  and  weekly 
journals,  and  one  hardy  journalist  even  gave  an  inter- 
view— which  had  never  occurred.  But  Gaston  re- 
mained a  picturesque  nine-days'  figure,  and  then  Par- 
liament rose  for  the  year. 

Meanwhile  he  was  in  Paris,  and  every  morning 
early  he  could  be  seen  with  Jacques  riding  up  the 
Champs  Elysee  and  out  to  the  Bois  de  Boulogne. 
Every  afternoon  at  three  he  sat  for  "  Monmouth  "  or 
the  "  King  of  Ys "  with  his  horse  in  his  uncle's 
garden. 

Ian  Belward  might  have  lived  in  a  fashionable 
part ;  he  preferred  the  Latin  Quarter,  with  incursions 
into  the  other  at  fancy.  Gaston  lived  for  three  days 
in  the  Boulevard  Haussman,  and  then  took  apart- 


HE  JOURNEYS  AFAR.  181 

ments,  neither  expensive  nor  fashionable,  in  a  quiet 
street.  He  was  surrounded  by  students  and  artists,  a 
few  great  men  and  a  host  of  small  men :  Collarossi's 
school  here  and  Delacluse's  there :  models  flitting  in 
and  out  of  the  studios  in  his  courtyard,  who  stared 
at  him  as  he  rode,  and  sought  to  gossip  with  Jacques 
— accomplished  without  great  difficulty. 

Jacques  was  transformed.  A  cheerful  hue  grew 
on  his  face.  He  had  been  an  exile,  he  was  now  at 
home.  His  French  tongue  ran,  now  with  words  in 
the  patois  of  Normandy,  now  of  Brittany;  and  all 
with  the  accent  of  French  Canada,  an  accent  undis- 
turbed by  the  changes  and  growths  of  France.  He 
gossipped,  but  no  word  escaped  him  which  threw  any 
light  on  his  master's  history. 

Soon,  in  the  Latin  quarter,  they  were  as  notable  as 
they  had  been  at  Kidley  Court  or  in  London.  On  the 
Champs  Elysee  side  people  stared  at  the  two :  chiefly 
because  of  Gaston's  splendid  mount  and  Jacques' 
strange  broncho.  But  they  felt  that  they  were  at 
home.  Gaston's  French  was  not  perfect,  but  it  was 
enough  for  his  needs.  He  got  a  taste  of  that  freedom 
which  he  had  handed  over  to  the  dungeons  of  conven- 
tion two  years  before.  He  breathed.  Everything  in- 
terested him  so  much,  that  the  life  he  had  led  in  Eng- 
land seemed  very  distant. 

He  wrote  to  Delia,  of  course.  His  letters  were 
brief,  most  interesting,  not  tenderly  intimate,  and  not 


182  THE  TRESPASSER. 

daily.  From  the  first  they  puzzled  her  a  little,  and 
continued  to  do  so  ;  but  because  her  mother  said, 
"  What  an  impossible  man ! "  she  said,  "  Perfectly 
possible  !  Of  course  he  was  not  like  other  men  ;  he 
was  a  genius." 

And  the  days  went  on. 

Gaston  little  loved  the  purlieus  of  the  Place  de 
1'Opera.  One  evening  at  a  club  in  the  Boulevard 
Malesherbes  bored  him.  It  was  merely  Anglo-Ameri- 
can enjoyment,  dashed  with  French  drama.  The 
Bois  was  more  to  his  taste,  for  he  could  stretch  his 
horse's  legs ;  but  every  day  he  could  be  found  before 
some  simple  cafe  in  Montparnasse,  sipping  vermouth, 
and  watching  the  gay,  light  life  about  him.  He  sat 
up  with  delight  to  see  an  artist  and  his  "  Madame  " 
returning  from  a  journey  in  the  country,  seated  upon 
sheaves  of  corn,  quite  unregarded  by  the  world ; 
doing  as  they  listed  with  unabashed  simplicity.  He 
dined  often  at  the  little  H6tel  St.  Malo  near  the 
Gare  Montparnasse,  where  the  excellent  Pelletier 
played  the  host,  father,  critic,  patron,  comrade, — often 
benefactor — to  his  tons  enfants.  He  drank  vin  ordi- 
naire^ smoked  caporal  cigarettes,  made  friends,  and 
was  in  all  as  a  savage — or  a  much-travelled  English 
gentleman. 

His  uncle  Ian  had  introduced  him  here  as  at  other 
places  of  the  kind,  and,  whatever  his  ulterior  object 
was,  had  an  artist's  pleasure  at  seeing  a  layman  enjoy 


HE   JOURNEYS  AFAR.  183 

the  doings  of  Paris  art  life.  Himself  lived  more  lux- 
uriously. In  an  avenue  not  far  from  the  Luxem- 
bourg he  had  a  small  hotel  with  a  fine  old-fashioned 
garden  behind  it,  and  here  distinguished  artists,  mu- 
sicians, actors,  and  actresses  came  at  times. 

The  evening  of  Gaston's  arrival  he  took  him  to  a 
cafe  and  dined  him,  and  afterwards  to  the  Boullier — 
there,  merely  that  he  might  see ;  but  this  place  had 
nothing  more  than  a  passing  interest  for  him.  His 
mind  had  the  poetry  of  a  free,  simple — even  wild — life, 
but  he  had  no  instinct  for  vice  in  the  name  of  amuse- 
ment. But  the  later  hours  spent  in  the  garden  under 
the  stars,  the  cheerful  hum  of  the  boulevards  coming 
to  them  distantly,  stung  his  veins  like  good  wine. 
They  sat  and  talked,  with  no  word  of  England  in  it 
at  all,  Jacques  near,  listening. 

Ian  Belward  was  at  his  best :  genial,  entertaining, 
with  the  art  of  the  man  of  no  principles,  no  convic- 
tions, and  a  keen  sense  of  life's  sublime  incongruities. 
Even  Jacques,  whose  sense  of  humour  had  grown  by 
long  association  with  Gaston,  enjoyed  the  piquant 
conversation.  The  next  evening  the  same.  About 
ten  o'clock  a  few  men  dropped  in  :  a  sculptor,  artists, 
and  Meyerbeer  an  American  newspaper  correspondent 
— who,  however,  was  not  known  as  such  to  Gaston. 

This  evening  Ian  determined  to  make  Gaston  talk. 
To  deepen  a  man's  love  for  a  thing,  get  him  to  talk 
of  it  to  the  eager  listener — he  passes  from  the  nar- 


184  THE  TRESPASSER. 

rator  to  the  advocate  unconsciously.  Gaston  was  not 
to  talk  of  England,  but  of  the  North,  of  Canada,  Mex- 
ico, the  Lotos  Isles.  He  did  so  picturesquely,  yet 
simply  too,  in  imperfect  but  sufficient  French.  But 
as  he  told  of  one  striking  incident  in  the  Rockies,  he 
heard  Jacques  make  a  quick  expression  of  dissent. 
He  smiled.  He  had  made  some  mistake  in  detail. 
Now,  Jacques  had  been  in  his  young  days  in  Quebec 
the  village  story-teller ;  one  who,  by  inheritance  or 
competency,  becomes  semi-officially  a  raconteur  for 
the  parish;  filling  in  winter  evenings,  nourishing 
summer  afternoons  with  tales,  weird,  childlike, 
faring. 

Now  Gaston  turned  and  said  to  Jacques  : 

"Well,  Brillon,  I've  forgotten,  as  you  see;  tell 
them  how  it  was." 

Two  hours  later  when  Jacques  retired  on  some 
errand,  amid  ripe  applause,  Ian  said : 

"  You've  got  an  artist  there,  Cadet :  that  descrip- 
tion of  the  fight  with  the  loup  garoo  was  as  good  as  a 
thing  from  Victor  Hugo.  Hugo  must  have  heard 
just  such  yarns,  and  spun  them  on  the  pattern. 
Upon  my  soul,  it's  excellent  stuff.  You've  lived, 
you  two." 

Another  night  Ian  Belward  gave  a  dinner,  at 
which  were  present  an  actress,  a  singer  of  some  re- 
pute, the  American  journalist,  and  others.  Some- 
thing that  was  said  sent  Gaston's  mind  to  the  House 


HE  JOURNEYS  AFAR.  185 

of  Commons.  Presently  he  saw  himself  in  a  ridicu- 
lous picture  :  a  buffalo  dragging  the  Treasury  Bench 
about  the  Chamber ;  as  one  conjures  things  in  an 
absurd  dream.  He  laughed  outright,  at  a  moment 
when  Mademoiselle  Cerise  was  telling  of  a  remarkable 
effect  she  produced  one  night  in  "Fedora,"  unpre- 
meditated, inspired;  and  Mademoiselle  Cerise,  with 
smiling  lips  and  eyes  like  daggers,  called  him  a  bear. 
This  brought  him  to  himself,  and  he  swam  with  the 
enjoyment.  He  did  enjoy  it,  but  not  as  his  uncle 
wished  and  hoped.  Gaston  did  not  respond  eagerly 
to  the  charms  of  Mademoiselle  Cerise  and  Madame 
Juliette. 

Was  Delia,  then,  so  strong  in  the  barbarian's 
mind  ?  He  could  not  think  so,  but  Gaston  had  not 
shown  yet,  either  for  model,  for  daughter  of  joy,  or 
for  the  mademoiselles  of  the  stage  any  disposition  to 
an  amour  or  a  mesalliance :  either  would  be  interest- 
ing and  sufficient !  Models  went  in  and  out  of  lan's 
studio  and  the  studios  of  others,  and  Gaston  chatted 
with  them  at  times ;  and  once  he  felt  the  bare  arm 
and  bare  breast  of  a  girl  as  she  sat  for  a  nymph,  and 
said  in  an  interested  way  that  her  flesh  was  as  firm 
and  fine  as  a  Tongan's.  He  even  disputed  with  his 
uncle  on  the  tints  of  her  skin,  on  seeing  him  paint  it 
in,  showing  a  fine  eye  for  colour.  But  there  was 
nothing  more ;  he  was  impressed,  observant,  inter- 
ested,—that  was  all.  His  uncle  began  to  wonder  if 
13 


186  THE  TRESPASSER. 

the  Englishman  was,  after  all,  deeper  in  the  grain 
than  the  savage.  He  contented  himself  with  the  be- 
lief that  the  most  vigorous  natures  are  the  most  diffi- 
cult to  rouse.  Mademoiselle  Cerise  sang,  with  chic 
and  abandon  very  fascinating  to  his  own  sensuous 
nature,  a  song  with  a  charming  air  and  sentiment. 
It  was  after  a  night  at  the  opera  when  they  had  seen 
her  in  "  Lucia,"  and  the  contrast,  as  she  sang  in  his 
garden,  softly  lighted,  showed  her  at  the  most  attrac- 
tive angles.  She  drifted  from  a  sparkling  chanson  to 
the  delicate  pathos  of  a  song  of  De  Musset's. 

Gaston  responded  to  the  artist ;  but  to  the  woman 
— no !  He  had  seen  a  new  life,  even  in  its  abandon, 
polite,  fresh.  It  amused  him,  but  he  could  still  turn 
to  the  remembrance  of  Delia  without  blushing,  for  he 
had  come  to  this  in  the  spirit  of  the  idler,  not  the 
libertine. 

Mademoiselle  Cerise  said  to  Ian  at  last : 

"  Enfin^  is  the  man  stone  ?  As  handsome  as  a 
leopard,  too !  Voila,  it  is  no  matter !  " 

But  she  made  another  effort  to  interest  him.  It 
galled  her  that  he  did  not  fall  at  her  feet  as  others 
had  done.  Even  Ian  had  come  there  in  his  day,  but 
she  knew  him  too  well.  She  had  said  to  him  at  the 
time: 

"  You,  monsieur  ?  No,  thank  you.  A  week,  a 
month,  and  then  the  brute  in  you  would  out.  You 
make  a  woman  fond,  and  then — a  mat  for  your  feet, 


HE  JOURNEYS  AFAR.  187 

and  your  wicked  smile,  and  savage  English  words  to 
drive  her  to  the  vitriol  or  the  Seine.  Et  puis,  dear 
monsieur,  accept  my  good  friendship,  nothing  more. 
I  will  sing  to  you,  dance  to  you,  even  pray  for  you — 
we  poor  sinners  do  that  sometimes,  and  go  on  sin- 
ning ;  but,  again,  nothing  more." 

Ian  admired  her  all  the  more  for  her  refusal  of 
him,  and  they  had  been  good  friends.  He  had  told 
her  of  his  nephew's  coming,  had  hinted  at  his  for- 
tune, at  his  primitive  soul,  at  the  unconventional 
strain  in  him,  even  at  marriage.  She  could  not  read 
his  purpose,  but  she  knew  there  was  something,  and 
answering  him  with  a  yes,  had  waited.  Had  Gaston 
have  come  to  her  feet  she  would  probably  have  got  at 
the  truth  somehow,  and  have  worked  in  his  favour, — 
the  joy  vice  takes  to  side  with  virtue,  at  times — when 
it  is  at  no  personal  sacrifice.  But  Gaston  was  supe- 
rior in  a  grand  way.  He  was  simple,  courteous,  in- 
terested only.  This  stung  her,  and  she  would  bring 
him  to  his  knees,  if  she  could.  This  night  she  had 
rung  all  the  changes,  and  had  done  no  more  than  get 
his  frank  applause.  She  became  petulant  in  an  airy 
exacting  way.  She  asked  him  about  his  horse.  This 
interested  him.  She  wanted  to  see  it.  To-morrow? 
No,  no,  now !  Perhaps  to-morrow  she  would  not  care 
to ;  there  was  no  joy  in  deliberate  pleasure.  Now — 
now — now  !  He  laughed.  Well,  now,  as  she  wished ! 

Jacques  was  called.     She  said  to  him : 


188  THE  TRESPASSER. 

"  Come  here,  little  comrade."  Jacques  came. 
"  Look  at  me,"  she  added.  She  fixed  her  eyes  on 
him,  and  smiled.  She  was  in  the  soft  flare  of  the 
lights. 

"  Well,"  she  said  after  a  moment,  "  what  do  you 
think  of  me?" 

Jacques  was  confused. 

"  Madame  is  beautiful." 

"  The  eyes  ?  "  she  urged. 

"  I  have  "been  to  Gaspe,  and  west  to  Esquimault, 
and  in  England,  but  I  have  never  seen  such  as 
those ! "  he  said.  Kace  and  primitive  man  spoke 
there. 

She  laughed.    "  Come  closer,  comrade." 

He  did  so.  She  suddenly  rose,  dropped  her  hands 
on  his  shoulders,  and  kissed  his  cheek. 

"  Now  bring  the  horse,  and  I  will  kiss  him  too." 

Did  she  think  she  could  rouse  Gaston  by  kissing 
his  servant?  Yet  it  did  not  disgust  him.  He  knew 
it  was  a  bit  of  acting,  and  it  was  well  done.  Besides, 
Jacques  Brillon  was  not  a  mere  servant,  and  he,  too, 
had  done  well.  She  sat  back  and  laughed  lightly 
when  Jacques  was  gone.  Then  she  said :  "  The  hon- 
est fellow ! "  and  hummed  an  air : 

" « The  pretty  coquette 

"Well  she  needs  to  be  wise, 
Though  she  strike  to  the  heart 
By  a  glance  of  her  eyes. 


HE  JOURNEYS  AFAR.  189 

For  the  daintiest  bird 

Is  the  sport  of  the  storm, 
And  the  rose  fadeth  most 

When  the  bosom  is  warm.' " 

In  twenty  minutes  the  gate  of  the  garden  opened, 
and  Jacques  appeared  with  Saracen.  The  horse's 
black  skin  glistened  in  the  lights,  and  he  tossed  his 
head  and  champed  his  bit.  Gaston  rose.  Mademoi- 
selle Cerise  sprang  to  her  feet  and  ran  forward. 
Jacques  put  out  his  hand  to  stop  her,  and  Gaston 
caught  her  shoulder. 

"  He's  wicked  with  strangers,"  Gaston  said. 

"  Chut ! "  she  rejoined,  stepped  quickly  to  the 
horse's  head  and,  laughing,  put  out  her  hand  to 
stroke  him.  Jacques  caught  the  beast's  nose,  and 
stopped  a  lunge  of  the  great  white  teeth. 

"  Enough,  madame,  he  will  kill  you ! " 

"  Yet  I  am  beautiful — is  it  not  so  ?  " 

"  The  poor  beast  is  ver'  blind." 

"  A  pretty  compliment ! "  she  rejoined,  yet  angry 
at  the  beast. 

Gaston  came,  took  the  animal's  head  in  his  hands, 
and  whispered.  Saracen  became  tranquil.  Gaston 
beckoned  to  Mademoiselle  Cerise.  She  came.  He 
took  her  hand  in  his  and  put  it  at  the  horse's  lips. 
The  horse  whinnied  angrily  at  first,  but  permitted  a 
caress  from  the  actress'  fingers. 

"  He  does  not  make  friends  easily,"  said  Gaston. 


190  THE  TRESPASSER. 

"  Nor  does  his  master." 

Her  eyes  lifted  to  his,  the  lids  drooping  sug- 
gestively. 

"  But  when  the  pact  is  made !  " 

"  Till  death  us  do  part  ?  " 

"  Death  or  ruin." 

"  Death  is  better." 

"  That  depends ! " 

"  Ah  !  I  understand,"  she  said.  "  On— the  wom- 
an?" 

"Yes." 

Then  he  became  silent. 

"  Mount  the  horse,"  she  urged. 

Gaston  sprang  at  one  bound  upon  the  horse's  bare 
back.  Saracen  reared  and  wheeled. 

"  Splendid  ! "  she  said ;  then,  presently :  "  Take  me 
up  with  you." 

He  looked  doubting  for  a  moment,  then  whispered 
to  the  horse. 

"  Come  quickly ! "  he  said. 

She  came  to  the  side  of  the  horse.  He  stooped, 
caught  her  by  the  waist,  and  lifted  her  up.  Saracen 
reared,  but  Gaston  had  him  down  in  a  moment. 

Ian  Belward  suddenly  called  out : 

"  For  God's  sake,  keep  that  pose  for  five  minutes — 
only  five ! "  He  caught  up  some  canvas.  "  Hold  can- 
dles near  them,"  he  said  to  the  others.  They  did  so. 
With  great  swiftness  he  sketched  in  the  strange  pic- 


HE  JOURNEYS  AFAR.  191 

ture.  It  looked  weird,  almost  savage  :  Gaston's  large 
form,  his  legs  loose  at  the  horse's  side,  the  woman  in 
her  white  drapery  clinging  to  him. 

In  a  little  time  the  artist  said  : 

"  There ;  that  will  do.  Ten  such  sittings  and  my 
4  King  of  Ys '  will  have  its  day  with  the  world.  I'd 
give  two  fortunes  for  the  chance  of  it ! " 

The  woman's  heart  had  beat  fast  with  Gaston's  arm 
around  her.  He  felt  the  thrill  of  the  situation.  Man, 
woman,  and  horse  were  as  of  a  piece. 

But  Cerise  knew,  when  Gaston  let  her  to  the 
ground  again,  that  she  had  not  conquered. 


CHAPTER  XIV. 

IN   WHICH  THE   PAST  IS   EEPEATED. 

NEXT  morning  Gaston  was  visited  by  Meyerbeer 
the  American  journalist,  of  whose  profession  he  was 
still  ignorant.  He  saw  him  only  as  a  man  of  raw 
vigour  of  opinion,  crude  manners,  and  heavy  tempera- 
ment. He  had  not  been  friendly  to  him  at  night,  and 
he  was  surprised  at  the  morning  visit.  The  hour  was 
such  that  Gaston  must  ask  him  to  breakfast.  The 
two  were  soon  at  the  table  of  the  Hotel  St.  Malo. 
Meyerbeer  sniffed  the  air  when  he  saw  the  place.  The 
linen  was  ordinary,  the  rooms  small ;  but  all — he  did 
not  take  this  into  account — irreproachably  clean.  The 
walls  were  covered  with  pictures ;  some  taken  for  un- 
paid debts,  gifts  from  students  since  risen  to  fame  or 
gone  into  the  outer  darkness, — to  young  artists'  eyes, 
the  sordid  money-making  world, — and  had  there  been 
lost ;  from  a  great  artist  or  two  who  remembered  the 
days  of  his  youth  and  the  good  host  who  had  seen 
many  little  colonies  of  artists  come  and  go. 

They  sat  down  to  the  table,  which  was  soon  filled 
with  students  and  artists.  Then  Meyerbeer  began  to 


IN  WHICH  THE  PAST  IS  REPEATED.        193 

see,  not  only  an  interesting  thing,  but  "  copy."  He 
was,  in  fact,  preparing  a  certain  article  which,  as  he 
said  to  himself,  would  "  make  'em  sit  up  "  in  London 
and  New  York.  He  had  found  out  Gaston's  history, 
had  read  his  speech  in  the  Commons,  had  seen  para- 
graphs speculating  as  to  where  he  was ;  and  now  he, 
Salem  Meyerbeer,  would  tell  them  what  the  wild  fel- 
low was  doing.  The  Bullier,  the  cafes  in  the  Latin 
Quarter,  apartments  in  a  humble  street,  dining  for 
one-franc-fifty,  supping  with  actresses,  posing  for  the 
King  of  Ys  with  that  actress  in  his  arms — all  excellent 
in  their  way.  But  now  there  was  needed  an  entangle- 
ment, intrigue,  amour,  and  then  America  should  shriek 
at  his  picture  of  one  of  the  British  aristocracy,  and  a 
gentleman  of  the  Commons,  "  on  the  loose,"  as  he 
put  it. 

He  would  head  it : 

"AEISTOCRAT,  POLITICIAN,  LIBERTINE!" 

Then,  under  that  he  would  put : 

"CAN  THE   ETHIOPIAN    CHANGE   HIS    SKIN,    OB   THE 
LEOPARD   HIS    SPOTS  ?  "   J&T.  xi.  23. 

The  morality  of  such  a  thing  ?  Morality  only  had 
to  do  with  ruining  a  girl's  name,  or  robbery.  How 
did  it  concern  this  ? 

So  Mr.  Meyerbeer  kept  his  ears  open.  Presently 
one  of  the  students  said  to  Bagshot,  a  young  artist : 

"  How  does  the  dompteuse  come  on  ?  " 


194  THE  TRESPASSER. 

"  Oh  !  I  think  it's  chic  enough.  She's  magnificent. 
The  colour  of  her  skin  against  the  lions  was  splendid 
to-day  :  a  regular  rich  gold  with  a  sweet  stain  of  red 
— like  a  leaf  of  maize  in  September.  There's  never 
been  such  a  Una.  I've  got  my  chance  ;  and  if  I  don't 
pull  it  off, 

'  Wrap  me  up  in  my  tarpaulin  jacket, 
And  say  a  poor  buffer  lies  low ! ' " 

"  Get  the  jacket  ready,"  put  in  a  young  French- 
man, sneering. 

The  Englishman's  jaw  hardened,  but  he  replied 
coolly : 

"  What  do  you  know  about  it  ?  " 

"  I  know  enough.     The  Comte  Ploare  visits  her." 

"How  the  devil  does  that  concern  my  painting 
her  ?  " 

There  was  iron  in  Bagshot's  voice. 

"  Who  says  you  are  painting  her  ?  " 

The  insult  was  conspicuous.  Gaston  quickly  inter- 
posed. His  clear  strong  voice  rang  down  the  table  : 

"  Will  you  let  me  come  and  see  your  canvas  some 
day  soon,  Mr.  Bagshot  ?  I  remember  your  *  A  Passion 
in  the  Desert,'  at  the  Academy  this  year.  A  fine 
thing :  the  leopard  was  free  and  strong.  As  an 
Englishman,  I  am  proud  to  meet  you." 

The  young  Frenchman  stared.  The  quarrel  had 
passed  to  a  new  and  unexpected  quarter.  Gaston's 
large,  solid  body,  strong  face,  and  penetrating  eyes 


IN  WHICH  THE  PAST  IS  KEPEATED.        195 

were  not  to  be  sneered  out  of  sight.  The  Frenchman, 
an  envious,  disappointed  artist,  had  had  in  his  mind 
a  bloodless  duel,  to  give  a  fillip  to  an  unacquired 
fame.  He  had,  however,  been  drinking.  He  flung 
an  insolent  glance  to  meet  Gaston's  steady  look,  and 
said: 

"  The  cock  crows  of  his  dunghill ! " 

Gaston  looked  at  the  landlord,  then  got  up  calmly 
and  walked  down  the  table.  The  Frenchman,  ex- 
pecting he  knew  not  what,  sprang  to  his  feet,  snatch- 
ing up  a  knife  ;  but  Gaston  was  on  him  like  a  hawk, 
pinioning  his  arms  and  lifting  him  off  the  ground, 
binding  his  legs  too,  all  so  tight  that  the  Frenchman 
squealed  for  breath. 

"Monsieur,"  said  Gaston  to  the  landlord,  "from 
the  door  or  the  window  ?  " 

Pelletier  was  pale.  It  was  in  some  respects  a  quar- 
rel of  races.  For,  French  and  English  at  the  tables 
had  got  up  and  were  eying  each  other.  As  to  the 
immediate  outcome  of  the  quarrel,  there  could  be  no 
doubt.  The  English  and  Americans  could  break  the 
others  to  pieces ;  but  neither  wished  that.  The  land- 
lord decided  the  matter  : 

"  Drop  him  from  this  window." 

He  pushed  a  shutter  back,  and  Gaston  dropped  the 
fellow  on  the  hard  pavement — a  matter  of  five  feet. 
The  Frenchman  got  up  raging,  and  made  for  the 
door ;  but  this  time  he  was  met  by  Pelletier,  who  gave 


196  THE  TRESPASSER. 

him  his  hat,  and  bade  him  come  no  more.  There  was 
applause  from  both  English  and  French.  The  jour- 
nalist chuckled — another  column  ! 

Gaston  had  acted  with  coolness  and  common-sense ; 
and  when  he  sat  down  and  began  talking  of  the  Eng- 
lishman's picture  again  as  if  nothing  had  happened, 
the  others  followed,  and  the  dinner  went  on  cheer- 
fully. 

Presently  another  young  English  painter  entered, 
and  listened  to  the  conversation,  which  Gaston  brought 
back  to  Una  and  the  lions.  It  was  his  way  to  force 
things  to  his  liking,  if  possible ;  and  he  wanted  to 
hear  about  the  woman — why,  he  did  not  ask  himself. 
The  new  arrival,  Fancourt  by  name,  kept  looking  at 
him  quizzically.  Gaston  presently  said  that  he  would 
visit  the  menagerie  and  see  this  famous  dompteuse 
that  afternoon. 

"  She's  a  brick  !  "  said  Bagshot.  "  I  was  in  debt, 
a  year  behind  with  my  Pelletier  here,  and  it  took  all  I 
got  for  '  The  Passion  in  the  Desert '  to  square  up.  I'd 
nothing  to  go  on  with.  I  spent  my  last  sou  in  visit- 
ing the  menagerie.  There  I  got  an  idea.  I  went  to 
her,  told  her  how  I  was  fixed,  and  begged  her  to  give 
me  a  chance.  By  Jingo  !  she  brought  the  water  to  my 
eyes.  Some  think  she's  a  bit  of  a  devil ;  but  she  can 
be  a  devil  of  a  saint,  that's  all  I've  got  to  say !  " 

"  Zoug-Zoug's  responsible  for  the  devil,"  said  Fan- 
court  to  Bagshot. 


IN  WHICH  THE  PAST  IS  REPEATED.        19Y 

"  Shut  up,  Fan,"  rejoined  Bagshot,  hurriedly,  and 
then  whispered  to  him  quickly. 

Fancourt  sent  self-conscious  glances  down  the  table 
towards  Gaston ;  and  then  a  young  American,  newly 
come  to  Paris,  said  : 

"  Who's  Zoug-Zoug,  and  what's  Zoug-Zoug  ?  " 

"  It's  milk  for  babes,  youngster,"  answered  Bagshot 
quickly,  and  changed  the  conversation. 

Graston  saw  something  strange  in  the  little  inci- 
dent ;  but  he  presently  forgot  it  for  many  a  day,  and 
then  remembered  it  for  many  a  day,  when  the  wheel 
had  spun  through  a  wild  arc. 

When  they  rose  from  the  table,  Meyerbeer  went  to 
Bagshot,  and  said  : 

"  Say,  who's  Zoug-Zoug,  anyway  ?  " 

Bagshot  coolly  replied : 

"  I'm  acting  for  another  paper.     What  price  ?  " 

"  Fifty  dollars,"  in  a  low  voice,  eagerly. 

Bagshot  meditated. 

"  H'm,  fifty  dollars !  Two  hundred  and  fifty  francs, 
or  thereabouts.  Beggarly  ! " 

"A  hundred,  then." 

Bagshot  got  to  his  feet,  lighting  a  cigarette. 

"Want  to  have  a  pretty  story  against  a  woman, 
and  to  smutch  a  man,  do  you  ?  Well,  I'm  hard  up  ; 
I  don't  mind  gossip  among  ourselves ;  but  sell  the  stuff 
to  you — I'll  see  you  damned  first !  " 

"  This  was  said  sufficiently  loud ;  and  after  that, 


198  THE  TRESPASSER. 

Meyerbeer  could  not  ask  Fancourt,  so  he  departed  with 
Gaston,  who  courteously  dismissed  him,  to  his  aston- 
ishment and  regret,  for  he  had  determined  to  visit  the 
menagerie  with  his  quarry. 

Gaston  went  to  his  apartments,  and  cheerily  sum- 
moned Jacques. 

"  Now,  little  man,  for  a  holiday  !  The  menagerie : 
lions,  leopards,  and  a  grand  dompteuse ;  and  after- 
wards dinner  with  me  at  the  Cafe  Blanche.  I  want  a 
blow-out  of  lions  and  that  sort.  I'd  like  to  be  a  lion- 
tamer  myself  for  a  month,  or  as  long  as  might  be." 

He  caught  Jacques  by  the  shoulders — he  had  not 
done  so  since  that  memorable  day  at  Ridley  Court. 

"  See,  Jacques,  we'll  do  this  every  year. — Six 
months  in  England,  and  three  months  on  the  Conti- 
nent,— in  your  France,  if  you  like, — and  three  months 
in  the  out-of-the-wayest  place,  where  there'll  be  big 
game.  Hidalgos  for  six  months,  Goths  for  the  rest." 

A  half-hour  later  they  were  in  the  menagerie. 
They  sat  near  the  doors  where  the  performers  entered. 
For  a  long  time  they  watched  the  performance  with 
delight,  clapping  and  calling  bravo  like  boys.  Pres- 
ently the  famous  dompteuse  entered, — Mademoiselle 
Victorine, — passing  just  below  Gaston.  He  looked 
down,  interested,  at  the  supple,  lithe  creature  making 
for  the  cages  of  lions  in  the  amphitheatre.  The  figure 
struck  him  as  familiar.  Presently  the  girl  turned, 
throwing  a  glance  round  the  theatre.  He  caught  the 


IN  WHICH  THE  PAST  IS  REPEATED.        199 

flash  of  the  dark,  piercing  eyes,  the  luminous  look,  the 
face  unpainted — in  its  own  natural  colour  :  neither 
hot  health  nor  paleness,  but  a  thing  to  bear  the  light 
of  day. 

"  Andre e  the  gipsy  !  "  he  said  in  a  low  tone. 

In  less  than  two  years  this  !  Here  was  fame.  A 
wanderer,  an  Ishmael  then,  her  handful  of  household 
goods  and  her  father  in  the  grasp  of  the  Law  :  to-day, 
Mademoiselle  Victorine,  queen  of  animal-tamers !  And 
her  name  associated  with  the  Comte  Ploare  ! 

With  the  Comte  PloarS  ?  Had  it  come  to  that  ? 
He  remembered  the  look  in  her  face  when  he  bade 
her  good-bye.  Impossible !  Then,  immediately  he 
laughed.  Why  impossible?  And  why  should  he 
bother  his  head  about  it  ?  People  of  thi?  sort :  Made- 
moiselle Cerise,  Madame  Juliette,  Mademoiselle  Vic- 
torine— what  were  they  to  him,  or  to  themselves  ? 

There  flashed  through  his  brain  three  pictures : 
when  he  stood  by  the  bedside  of  the  old  dying  Esqui- 
maux in  Labrador,  and  took  a  girl's  hand  in  his; 
when  among  the  flowers  at  Peppingham  he  heard 
Delia  say :  "  Oh,  Gaston  !  Gaston  !  "  and  Alice's 
face  at  midnight  in  the  moonlit  window  at  Eidley 
Court. 

How  strange  this  figure — spangled,  gaudy,  stand- 
ing among  her  lions — seemed  by  these.  To  think  of 
her,  his  veins  thumping  thus,  was  an  insult  to  all 
three :  to  Delia,  one  unpardonable.  And  yet  he  could 


200  THE  TRESPASSER. 

not  take  his  eyes  off  her.  Her  performance  was  splen- 
did. He  was  interested,  speculative.  She  certainly 
had  flown  high ;  for,  again,  why  should  not  a  domp- 
teuse  he  a  decent  woman?  And  here  were  money, 
fame  of  a  kind,  and  an  occupation  that  sent  his  "blood 
hounding.  A  dompteur  ! — He  had  tamed  moose,  and 
young  mountain  lions,  and  a  catamount,  and  had  had 
mad  hours  with  pumas  and  arctic  hears;  and  he  could 
understand  how  even  he  might  easily  pass  from  M.  P. 
to  dompteur.  It  was  not  intellectual,  but  it  was 
power  of  a  kind  ;  and  it  was  decent,  and  healthy,  and 
infinitely  better  than  playing  the  Jew  in  business,  or 
keeping  a  tavern,  or  "  shaving  "  notes,  and  all  that. 
Truly,  the  woman  was  to  be  admired,  for  she  was 
earning  an  honest  living;  and  no  doubt  they  lied 
when  they  named  her  with  Count  Ploare.  He  kept 
coming  back  to  that — Count  Ploare !  Why  could 
they  not  leave  these  women  alone  ?  Did  they  think 
none  of  them  virtuous  ?  He  would  stake  his  life  that 
Andree — he  would  call  her  that — was  as  straight  as 
the  sun. 

"  What  do  you  think  of  her,  Jacques  ? "  he  said 
suddenly. 

"  It  is  grand.  Mon  Dieu,  she  is  wonderful — and  a 
face  all  fire!" 

Presently  she  came  out  of  the  cage,  followed  by 
two  great  lions.  She  walked  round  the  ring,  a  hand 
on  the  head  of  each :  one  growling,  the  other  purring 


IN  WHICH  THE  PAST  IS  REPEATED.        201 

against  her,  with  a  ponderous  kind  of  affection.  She 
talked  to  them  as  they  went,  giving  occasionally  a 
deep  purring  sound  like  their  own.  Her  talk  never 
ceased.  She  looked  at  the  audience,  but  only  as  in  a 
dream.  Her  mind  was  all  with  the  animals.  There 
was  something  splendid  in  it :  she,  herself,  was  a  no- 
ble animal ;  and  she  seemed  entirely  in  place  where 
she  was.  The  lions  were  fond  of  her,  and  she  of  them ; 
but  the  first  part  of  her  performance  had  shown  that 
they  could  be  capricious.  A  lion's  love  is  but  a  lion's 
love  after  all— and  hers  likewise,  no  doubt!  The 
three  seemed  as  one  in  their  beauty,  the  woman  su- 
perbly superior. 

Meyerbeer,  in  a  far  corner,  was  still  on  the  trail  of 
his  sensation.  He  thought  that  he  might  get  an  arti- 
cle out  of  it — with  the  help  of  Count  Ploare  and 
Zoug-Zoug.  Who  was  Zoug-Zoug?  He  exulted  in 
her  picturesqueness,  and  he  determined  to  lie  in  wait. 
He  thought  it  a  pity  that  Comte  Ploare  was  not  an 
Englishman  or  an  American;  but  it  couldn't  be 
helped.  Yes,  she  was,  as  he  said  to  himself,  "  a  stun- 
ner !  "  Meanwhile  he  watched  Gaston,  noted  his  in- 
tense interest. 

Presently  the  girl  stopped  beside  the  cage.  A 
chariot  was  brought  out,  and  the  two  lions  were  har- 
nessed to  it.  Then  she  called  out  another  larger  lion, 
which  came  unwillingly  at  first.  She  spoke  sharply, 

and  then  struck  him.    He  growled,  but  came  on. 
14 


THE  TRESPASSER. 

Then  she  spoke  softly  to  him,  and  made  that  peculiar 
purr,  soft  and  rich.  Now  he  responded,  walked  round 
her,  coming  closer,  till  his  body  made  a  half-circle 
ahout  her,  and  his  head  was  at  her  knees.  She 
dropped  her  hand  on  it.  Great  applause  rang  through 
the  building.  This  play  had  been  quite  accidental. 
But  there  lay  one  secret  of  the  girl's  success.  She 
was  original;  she  depended  greatly  on  the  power  of 
the  moment  for  her  best  effects,  and  they  came  at  un- 
expected times. 

It  was  at  this  instant  that,  glancing  round  the  the-, 
atre  in  acknowledgment  of  the  applause,  her  eyes 
rested  mechanically  on  Gaston's  box.  There  was  gen- 
erally someone  important  in  that  box :  from  a  foreign 
prince  to  a  young  gentleman  whose  proudest  moment 
was  to  take  off  his  hat  in  the  Bois  to  the  queen  of  a 
lawless  court.  She  had  tired  of  being  introduced  to 
princes.  What  could  it  mean  to  her  ?  And  for  the 
young  bloods,  whose  greatest  regret  was  that  they 
could  not  send  forth  a  daughter  of  joy  into  the 
Champs  Elysee  in  her  carriage,  she  had  ever  sent  them 
about  their  business.  She  had  no  corner  of  pardon 
for  them.  She  kissed  her  lions,  she  hugged  the  lion's 
cub  that  rode  back  and  forth  with  her  to  the  menage- 
rie day  by  day — her  companion  in  her  modest  apart- 
ments ;  but  sell  one  of  these  kisses  to  a  young  gentle- 
man of  Paris,  whose  ambition  was  to  master  all  the 
Vices,  and  then  let  the  vices  master  him  ! — she  had  not 


IN  WHICH  THE  PAST  IS  REPEATED.        203 

come  to  that,  though,  as  she  said  in  some  bitter  mo- 
ments, she  had  come  far. 

Count  PloarS— there  was  nothing  in  that.  A 
blas6  man  of  the  world,  who  had  found  it  all  not 
worth  the  bothering  about,  neither  code  nor  people, — 
he  saw  in  this  rich  impetuous  nature  a  new  range  of 
emotions,  a  brief  return  to  the  time  when  he  tasted  an 
open  strong  life  in  Algiers,  in  Tahiti.  And  he  would 
laugh  at  the  world  by  marrying  her — yes,  actually 
marrying  her,  the  dompteuse  !  Accident  had  let  him 
render  her  a  service,  not  unimportant,  once  at  Ver- 
sailles, and  he  had  been  so  courteous  and  considerate 
afterwards,  that  she  had  let  him  see  her  occasionally, 
but  never  yet  alone.  He  soon  saw  that  an  amour  was 
impossible.  At  last  he  spoke  of  marriage.  She  shook 
her  head.  She  ought  to  have  been  grateful,  but  she 
was  not.  Why  should  she  be?  She  did  not  know 
why  he  wished  to  marry  her ;  but,  whatever  the  rea- 
son, he  was  selfish.  Well,  she  would  be  selfish.  She 
did  not  care  for  him.  If  she  married  him,  it  would 
be  because  she  was  selfish :  because  of  position,  ease ; 
for  protection  in  this  shameless  Paris ;  and  for  a  home, 
she  who  had  been  a  wanderer  since  her  birth. 

It  was  mere  bargaining.  But  at  last  her  free,  in- 
dependent nature  revolted.  No  :  she  had  had  enough 
of  the  chain,  and  vhe  loveless  hand  of  man,  for  three 
months  that  were  burned  into  her  brain — no  more ! 
If  ever  she  Ipyed-^all !  But  not  the  right  for  Count 


204  THE  TRESPASSER. 

Ploare  to  demand  the  affection  she  gave  her  lions 
freely. 

The  manager  of  the  menagerie  had  tried  for  her 
affections,  had  offered  a  price  for  her  friendship ;  and 
failing,  had  become  as  good  a  friend  as  such  a  man 
could  be.  She  even  visited  his  wife  occasionally,  and 
gave  gifts  to  his  children;  and  the  mother  trusted 
her  and  told  her  her  trials.  And  so  the  thing  went 
on,  and  the  people  talked. 

As  we  said,  she  turned  her  eyes  to  Gaston's  box. 
Instantly  they  became  riveted,  and  then  a  deep  flush 
swept  slowly  up  her  face  and  burned  into  her  splendid 
hair.  Meyerbeer  was  watching  through  his  opera- 
glasses.  He  gave  an  exclamation  of  delight : 

"  By  the  holy  smoke,  here's  something  !  "  he  said 
aloud. 

For  an  instant  Gaston  and  the  girl  looked  at  each 
other  intently.  He  made  a  slight  sign  of  recognition 
with  his  hand,  and  then  she  turned  away,  gone  a  little 
pale  now.  She  stood  looking  at  her  lions,  as  if  trying 
to  recollect  herself.  The  lion  at  her  feet  helped  her. 
He  had  a  change  of  temper,  and,  possibly  fretting 
under  inaction,  growled.  At  once  she  summoned  him 
to  get  into  the  chariot.  He  hesitated,  but  did  so. 
She  put  the  reins  in  his  paws  and  took  her  place  be- 
hind. Then  a  robe  of  purple  and  ermine  was  thrown 
over  her  shoulders  by  an  attendant ;  she  gave  a  sharp 
command,  and  the  lions  came  round  the  ring,  to  wild 


IN  WHICH  THE  PAST  IS  REPEATED.        205 

applause.  Even  a  Parisian  audience  had  never  seen 
anything  like  this.  It  was  amusing  too;  for  the 
coachman-lion  was  evidently  disgusted  with  his  task, 
and  growled  in  a  helpless  kind  of  way. 

As  they  passed  Gaston's  box,  they  were  very  near. 
The  girl  threw  one  swift  glance;  but  her  face  was 
well  controlled  now.  She  heard,  however,  a  whispered 
word  come  to  her  : 

"  Andree ! " 

A  few  moments  afterwards  she  retired,  and  the 
performance  was  in  other  and  less  remarkable  hands. 
Presently  the  manager  himself  came,  and  said  that 
Mademoiselle  Yictorine  would  be  glad  to  see  Mon- 
sieur Belward  if  he  so  wished.  Gaston  left  Jacques, 
and  went. 

Meyerbeer  noticed  the  move,  and  determined  to 
see  the  meeting  if  possible.  There  was  something  in 
it,  he  was  sure.  He  would  invent  an  excuse,  and 
make  his  way  behind. 

Gaston  and  the  manager  were  in  the  latter's  rooms 
waiting  for  Victorine.  Presently  a  messenger  came, 
saying  that  Monsieur  Belward  would  find  Mademoi- 
selle in  her  dressing-room.  Thither  Gaston  went, 
accompanied  by  the  manager,  who,  however,  left  him 
at  the  door,  nodding  good-naturedly  to  Victorine,  and 
inwardly  praying  that  here  was  no  danger  to  his  busi- 
ness :  Victorine  was  a  source  of  great  profit !  Yet  he 
had  failed  himself,  and  all  others  had  failed  in  win- 


206  THE  TRESPASSER. 

ning  her, — why  should  this  man  succeed,  if  that  was 
his  purpose  ? 

There  was  present  an  elderly,  dark-featured 
Frenchwoman,  who  was  always  with  Victorine,  vigi- 
lant, protective,  loving  her  as  her  own  daughter. 

"  Monsieur  !  "  said  Andree,  a  warm  colour  in  her 
cheek. 

Gaston  shook  her  hand  cordially,  and  laughed. 

"  Mademoiselle — Andree  ?  " 

He  looked  inquiringly. 

"  Yes,  to  you,"  she  said. 

"You  have  it  all  your  own  way  now — isn't  it 
so?" 

"With  the  lions,  yes.  Please  sit  down.  This  is 
my  dear  keeper,"  she  said,  touching  the  woman's 
shoulder.  Then,  to  the  woman :  "  Annette,  you 
have  heard  me  speak  of  this  gentleman  ?  " 

The  woman  nodded,  and  modestly  touched  Gas- 
ton's  outstretched  hand. 

"Monsieur  was  kind  once  to  my  dear  Made- 
moiselle," she  said. 

Gaston  cheerily  smiled : 

"  Nothing,  nothing,  upon  my  word ! " 

Presently  he  continued : 

"  Your  father,  what  of  him  ?  " 

She  sighed  and  shivered  a  little. 

"  He  died  in  Auvergne  three  months  after  you  saw 
him." 


IN  WHICH  THE  PAST  IS  REPEATED.        207 

"  And  you  ? "  He  waved  a  hand  towards  the 
menagerie. 

"  It  is  a  long  story,"  she  answered,  not  meeting  his 
eyes.  "  I  hated  the  Komany  life.  I  became  an  artist's 
model;  sickened  of  that," — her  voice  went  quickly 
here, — "joined  a  travelling  menagerie,  and  became 
what  I  am.  That  in  brief." 

"  You  have  done  well,"  he  said  admiringly,  his  face 
glowing. 

"  I  am  a  successful  dompteuse,"  she  replied. 

She  then  asked  him  who  was  his  companion  in  the 
box.  He  told  her.  She  insisted  on  sending  for 
Jacques.  Meanwhile  they  talked  of  her  profession, 
of  the  animals.  She  grew  eloquent.  Jacques  arrived, 
and  suddenly  remembered  Andree — stammered,  was 
put  at  his  ease,  and  dropped  into  talk  with  Annette. 
Gaston  fell  into  reminiscences  of  wild  game,  and 
talked  intelligently,  acutely  of  her  work.  He  must 
wait,  she  said,  until  the  performance  closed,  and  then 
she  would  show  him  the  animals  as  a  happy  family. 
Thus  a  half -hour  went  by. 

Meanwhile,  Meyerbeer  had  asked  the  manager  to 
take  him  to  Mademoiselle ;  but  was  told  that  Victorine 
never  gave  information  to  journalists,  and  would  not 
be  interviewed.  Besides,  she  had  a  visitor.  Yes, 
Meyerbeer  knew  it — Mr.  Gaston  Belward;  but  that 
did  not  matter.  The  manager  thought  it  did  matter. 
Then,  with  an  idea  of  the  future,  Meyerbeer  asked  to 


THE  TRESPASSER. 

be  shown  the  menagerie  thoroughly, — he  would  write 
it  up  for  England  and  America. 

And  so  it  happened  that  there  were  two  sets  of 
people  inspecting  the  menagerie  after  the  perform- 
ance. Andree  let  a  dozen  of  the  animals  out — lions, 
leopards,  a  tiger,  and  a  bear, — and  they  gambolled 
round  her  playfully,  sometimes  quarrelling  with  each 
other,  but  brought  up  smartly  by  her  voice  and  a 
little  whip,  which  she  always  carried— the  only  sign  of 
professional  life  about  her,  though  there  was  ever 
a  dagger  hid  in  her  dress.  For  the  rest,  she  looked  a 
splendid  gipsy. 

Gaston  suddenly  asked  if  he  might  visit  her.  At 
the  moment  she  was  playing  with  the  young  tiger. 
She  paused,  was  silent,  preoccupied.  The  tiger,  feel- 
ing neglected,  caught  her  hand  with  its  paw.  Gaston 
whipped  out  his  handkerchief,  and  staunched  the 
blood.  She  wrapped  the  handkerchief  quickly  round 
her  hand,  and  then,  recovering  herself,  ordered  the 
animals  back  into  their  cages.  They  trotted  away, 
and  the  attendant  locked  them  up.  Meanwhile 
Jacques  had  picked  up  and  handed  to  Gaston  a  let- 
ter, dropped  when  he  drew  out  his  handkerchief.  It 
was  one  received  two  days  before  from  Delia  Gasgoyne. 
He  had  a  pang  of  confusion,  and  hastily  put  it  into 
his  pocket. 

Up  to  this  time  there  had  been  no  confusion  in  his 
mind.  He  was  going  back  to  do  his  duty ;  to  marry 


IN  WHICH  THE  PAST  IS  REPEATED.       209 

the  girl,  union  with  whom  would  be  an  honour ;  to 
take  his  place  in  his  kingdom.  He  had  had  no  min- 
ute's doubt  of  that.  It  was  necessary,  and  it  should 
be  done.  The  girl  ?  Did  he  not  admire  her,  honour 
her,  care  for  her  ?  Why,  then,  this  confusion  ? 

Andree  said  to  him  that  he  might  come  the  next 
morning  for  breakfast.  She  said  it  just  as  the  man- 
ager and  Meyerbeer  passed  her.  Meyerbeer  heard  it, 
and  saw  the  look  in  the  faces  of  both  :  in  hers,  be- 
wildered, warm,  penetrating ;  in  Gaston's,  eager,  glow- 
ing, bold,  with  a  distant  kind  of  trouble. 

Here  was  a  thickening  plot  for  Paul  Pry.  He 
hugged  himself.  But  who  was  Zoug-Zoug?  If  he 
could  lout  get  at  that !  He  asked  the  manager,  who 
said  he  did  not  know.  He  asked  a  dozen  men  that 
evening,  but  none  knew.  He  would  ask  Ian  Belward. 
What  a  fool  not  to  have  thought  of  him  at  first !  He 
knew  all  the  gossip  of  Paris,  and  was  always  com- 
municative— but  was  he,  after  all  ?  He  remembered 
now  that  the  painter  had  a  way  of  talking  at  discre- 
tion :  he  had  never  got  any  really  good  material  from 
him.  But  he  would  try  him  in  this. 

So,  as  Gaston  and  Jacques  travelled  down  the 
Boulevard  Montparnasse,  Meyerbeer  was  not  far  be- 
hind. 

The  journalist  found  Ian  Belward  at  home,  in  a 
cynical  indolent  mood. 

"  Wherefore  Meyerbeer  ?  "  he  said,  as  he  motioned 


210  THE  TRESPASSER. 

the  other  to  a  chair,  and  pushed  over  vermouth  and 
cigarettes. 

"  To  ask  a  question." 

"  One  question  ?  Come,  that's  penance !  Aren't 
you  lying  as  usual  ?  " 

"  No ;  one  only.     I've  got  the  rest  of  it." 

"  Got  the  rest  of  it,  eh  ?  Nasty  mess  you've  got, 
whatever  it  is,  I'll  be  bound.  What  a  nice  mob  you 
press  fellows  are — wholesale  scavengers !  " 

"  That's  all  right. — This  vermouth  is  good  enough ! 
Well,  will  you  answer  my  question  ?  " 

"Possibly,  if  it's  not  personal.  But  Lord  knows 
where  your  insolence  may  run !  You  may  ask  if  I'll 
introduce  you  to  a  decent  London  club ! " 

Meyerbeer  flushed  at  last. 

"  You're  rubbing  it  in,"  he  said  angrily. 

He  did  wish  to  be  introduced  to  a  good  London 
club. 

"  The  question  isn't  personal,  I  guess.  It's  this : 
Who's  Zoug-Zoug?" 

Smoke  had  come  trailing  out  of  Belward's  nose,  his 
head  thrown  back,  his  eyes  on  the  ceiling.  It  stopped, 
and  came  out  of  his  mouth  in  one  long,  straight  whiff. 
Then  the  painter  brought  his  head  to  a  natural  posi- 
tion slowly,  and  looking  with  a  furtive  nonchalance  at 
Meyerbeer,  said : 

"Who  is  what?" 

"Who's  Zoug-Zoug?" 


IN  WHICH  THE  PAST  IS  REPEATED.        211 

"  That  is  your  one  solitary  question,  is  it  ?  " 

"  That's  it." 

"  Very  well.  Now,  I'll  be  scavenger.  What  is  the 
story  ?  Who  is  the  woman  ? — for  you've  got  a  woman 
in  it,  that's  certain ! " 

"  Will  you  tell  me,  then,  whether  yon  know  Zoug- 
Zoug?" 

"Yes." 

"  The  woman  is  Mademoiselle  Victorine,  the 
dompteuse." 

"  Oh !  I've  not  seen  her  yet.  She  burst  upon  Paris 
while  I  was  away.  Now,  straight :  no  lies :  who  are 
the  others?" 

Meyerbeer  hesitated;  for,  of  course,  he  did  not 
wish  to  speak  of  Gaston  at  this  stage  in  the  game. 
But  he  said : 

"  Count  Ploare" — and  Zoug-Zoug." 

"  Why  don't  you  tell  me  the  truth?" 

"  I  do.    Now,  who  is  Zoug-Zoug  ?  " 

"  Find  out ! " 

"  You  said  you'd  tell  me." 

"  No.  I  said  I'd  tell  you  if  I  knew  Zoug-Zoug.  I 
do." 

"That's  all  you'll  tell  me?" 

"  That's  all.  And  see,  scavenger,  take  my  advice 
and  let  Zoug-Zoug  alone.  He's  a  man  of  influence ; 
and  he's  possessed  of  a  devil.  He'll  make  you  sorry, 
if  you  meddle  with  him ! " 


212  THE  TRESPASSER. 

He  rose,  and  Meyerbeer  did  the  same,  saying : 

"  You'd  better  tell  me." 

"  Now,  don't  bother  me.  Drink  your  vermouth, 
take  that  bundle  of  cigarettes,  and  hunt  Zoug-Zoug 
elsewhere.  If  you  find  him,  let  me  know.  Good- 
bye!" 

Meyerbeer  went  out  furious.  The  treatment  had 
been  too  heroic. 

"  I'll  give  a  sweet  savour  to  your  family  name ! " 
he  said  with  an  oath,  as  he  shook  his  fist  at  the  closed 
door. 

Ian  Belward  sat  back  and  looked  at  the  ceiling 
reflectively. 

"  H'm ! "  he  said  at  last.  "  What  the  devil  does 
this  mean  ?  Not  Andree,  surely  not  Andree !  Yet 
I  wasn't  called  Zoug-Zoug  before  that.  It  was  Bag- 
shot's  insolent  inspiration  at  Auvergne.  Well,  well ! " 

He  got  up,  drew  over  a  portfolio  of  sketches,  took 
out  two  or  three,  put  them  in  a  row  against  a  divan, 
sat  down,  and  looked  at  them  half  quizzically. 

"  It  was  rough  on  you,  Andree ;  but  you  were  hard 
to  please,  and  I  am  constant  to  but  one.  Yet,  begad, 
you  had  solid  virtues;  and  I  wish,  for  your  sake,  I 
had  been  a  different  kind  of  fellow.  Well,  well,  we'll 
meet  again  some  time,  and  then  we'll  be  good  friends, 
no  doubt." 

He  turned  away  from  the  sketches  and  picked 
up  some  illustrated  newspapers.  In  one  was  a  por- 


IN  WHICH  THE  PAST  IS  REPEATED.        213 

trait.    He  looked  at  it,  then  at  the  sketches  again 
and  again. 

"There's  a  resemblance,"  he  said.  "But  no,  it's 
not  possible.  Andree — Mademoiselle  Victorine !  That 
would  be  amusing.  I'd  go  to-morrow  and  see,  if  I 
weren't  off  to  Fontainebleau.  But  there's  no  hurry : 
when  I  come  back  will  do." 


CHAPTER  XV. 

WHEREIN   IS   SEEK  THE   OLD   ADAM   AND  THE 
GARDEN. 

AT  Kidley  Court  and  Peppingham  all  was  serene 
to  the  eye.  Letters  had  come  to  the  Court  at  least 
once  every  two  weeks  from  Gaston,  and  the  minds  of 
the  Baronet  and  his  wife  were  at  ease.  They  even 
went  so  far  as  to  hope  that  he  would  influence  his 
uncle ;  for  it  was  clear  to  them  both  that  whatever 
Gaston's  faults  were,  they  were  agreeably  different 
from  lan's.  His  fame  and  promise  were  sweet  to 
their  nostrils.  Indeed,  the  young  man  had  brought 
the  wife  and  husband  nearer  than  they  had  been  since 
Robert  vanished  over-sea.  Each  had  blamed  the  other 
in  an  indefinite,  secret  way;  but  here  was  Robert's 
son,  on  whom  they  could  lavish — as  they  did — their 
affection,  long  since  forfeited  by  Ian.  Finally,  one 
day,  after  a  little  burst  of  thanksgiving,  on  getting  an 
excellent  letter  from  Gaston,  telling  of  his  simple, 
amusing  life  in  Paris,  Sir  "William  sent  him  one  thou- 
sand pounds,  begging  him  to  buy  a  small  yacht,  or  to 
do  what  he  pleased  with^  it. 

"  A  very  remarkable  man,  my  dear,"  Sir  William 


THE  OLD  ADAM  AND  THE  GARDEN.   215 

said,  as  he  enclosed  the  cheque.  "  Excellent  wisdom 
— excellent ! " 

"  Who  could  have  guessed  that  he  knew  so  much 
about  the  poor  and  the  East  End,  and  all  those  social 
facts  and  figures?"  Lady  Bel  ward  answered  com- 
placently. 

"  An  unusual  mind,  with  a  singular  taste  for  his- 
tory, and  yet  a  deep  observation  of  the  present.  I 
don't  know  when  and  how  he  does  it.  I  really  do  not 
know." 

"  It  is  nice  to  think  that  Lord  Faramond  approves 
of  him ! " 

"  Most  noticeable.  And  we  have  not  been  a  Par- 
liamentary family  since  the  first  Charles'  time.  And 
then  it  was  a  Sir  Gaston !  Singular — quite  singular ! 
Coincidences  of  looks  and  character.  Nature  plays 
strange  games.  Eeproduction — reproduction ! " 

"  The  Pall  Mall  Gazette  says  that  Lord  Faramond 
thinks  he  may  yet  reach  the  Treasury  Bench." 

Sir  William  was  abstracted.  He  was  thinking  of 
that  afternoon  in  Gaston's  bedroom,  when  his  grand- 
son had  acted,  before  Lady  Dargan  and  Cluny  Vosse, 
Sir  Gaston's  scene  with  Buckingham. 

"Keally,  most  mysterious,  most  unaccountable. 
But  it's  one  of  the  virtues  of  having  a  descent.  When 
it  is  most  needed,  it  counts,  it  counts." 

"  Against  the  half-breed  mother ! "  Lady  Belward 
added. 


216  THE  TRESPASSER. 

"  Quite  so,  against  the — was  it  Cree  or  Blackf oot  ? 
I've  heard  him  speak  of  both,  but  which  is  in  him  I 
do  not  remember." 

"  It  is  very  painful ;  but,  poor  fellow,  it  is  not  his 
fault,  and  we  ought  to  be  content." 

"  Indeed,  it  gives  him  great  originality.  Our  old 
families  need  refreshing  now  and  then." 

"  Ah,  yes,  I  said  so  to  Mrs.  Gasgoyne  the  other  day, 
and  she  replied  that  the  refreshment  might  prove  in- 
toxicating. Heine  was  always  rude." 

Truth  is,  Mrs.  Gasgoyne  was  not  quite  satisfied. 
That  very  day  she  said  to  her  husband : 

"  You  men  always  stand  by  each  other ;  but  I 
know  you,  and  you  know  that  I  know." 

" '  Thou  knowest  the  secrets  of  our  hearts ' ;  well, 
then,  you  know  how  we  love  you.  So,  be  merciful." 

"Nonsense,  Warren!  I  tell  you  he  oughtn't  to 
have  gone  when  he  did.  He  has  the  wild  man  in 
him,  and  I  am  not  satisfied." 

"  What  do  you  want— me  to  play  the  spy  ?  " 

"  Warren,  you're  a  fool !  What  do  I  want  ?  I 
want  the  first  of  September  to  come  quickly,  that  we 
may  have  him  with  us.  With  Delia  he  must  go 
straight.  She  influences  him,  he  admires  her — which 
is  better  than  mere  love.  Away  from  her  just  now, 

who  can  tell  what  mad  adventure !  You  see,  he 

has  had  the  curb  so  long ! " 

But  in  a  day  or  two  there  came  a  letter — unusually 


THE  OLD  ADAM  AND  THE  GARDEN.   21Y 

long  for  Gaston — to  Mrs.  Gasgoyne  herself.  It  was 
simple,  descriptive,  with  a  dash  of  epigram.  It  ac- 
knowledged that  he  had  felt  the  curb,  and  wanted  a 
touch  of  the  unconventional.  It  spoke  of  Ian  Bel- 
ward  in  a  dry  phrase,  and  it  asked  for  the  date  of  the 
yacht's  arrival  at  Gibraltar. 

"  Warren,  the  man  is  still  sensible,"  she  said. 
"  This  letter  is  honest.  He  is  much  a  heathen  at 
heart,  but  I  believe  he  hasn't  given  Delia  cause  to  blush 
— and  that's  a  good  deal !  Dear  me,  I  am  fond  of  the 
fellow — he  is  so  clever.  But  clever  men  are  trying." 

As  for  Delia,  like  every  sensible  English  girl,  she 
enjoyed  herself  in  the  time  of  youth,  drinking  in  de- 
lightedly the  interest  attaching  to  Gaston's  betrothed. 
His  letters  had  been  regular,  kind  yet  not  emotionally 
affectionate,  interesting,  uncommon.  He  had  a  knack 
of  saying  as  much  in  one  page  as  most  people  did  in 
five.  Her  imagination  was  not  great,  but  he  stimu- 
lated it.  If  he  wrote  a  pungent  line  on  Daudet  or 
Whistler,  on  Montaigne  or  Fielding,  she  was  stimu- 
lated to  know  them.  One  day  he  sent  her  Whitman's 
Leaves  of  Grass,  which  he  had  picked  up  in  New 
York  on  his  way  to  England.  This  startled  her.  She 
had  never  heard  of  Whitman.  To  her  he  seemed 
coarse,  incomprehensible,  ungentlemanly.  She  could 
not  understand  how  Gaston  could  say  beautiful  things 
about  Montaigne  and  about  Whitman  too.  She  had 

no  conception  how  he  had  in  him  the  strain  of  that 
15 


218  THE  TRESPASSER. 

first  Sir  Gaston  Belward,  and  was  also  the  son  of  a 
half-heathen. 

He  interested  her  all  the  more.  Her  letters  were 
hardly  so  fascinating  to  him.  She  was  beautifully  cor- 
rect, but  she  could  not  make  a  sentence  breathe.  He 
was  grateful,  but  nothing  stirred  in  him.  He  could 
live  without  her — that  he  knew  regretfully.  But  he 
did  his  part  with  sincere  intention. 

That  was  up  to  the  day  when  he  saw  Andree  as 
Mademoiselle  Victorine.  Then  came  a  swift  change. 
Day  after  day  he  visited  her,  always  in  the  presence 
of  Annette.  Soon  they  dined  often  together,  still 
in  Annette's  presence,  and  the  severity  of  that  rule 
was  never  relaxed. 

Count  Ploare  came  no  more ;  he  had  received 
his  dismissal.  Occasionally  Gaston  visited  the  mena- 
gerie, but  generally  after  the  performance,  when  Vic- 
torine had  a  half -hour's  or  an  hour's  romp  with  her 
animals.  This  was  a  pleasant  time  to  Gaston.  The 
wild  life  in  him  responded. 

These  were  hours  when  the  girl  was  quite  naive 
and  natural,  when  she  spent  herself  in  ripe  enjoy- 
ment— almost  child-like,  healthy.  At  other  times 
there  was  an  indefinable  something  which  Gaston  had 
not  noticed  in  England.  But  then  he  had  only  seen 
her  once.  She,  too,  saw  something  in  him  unnoticed 
before.  It  was  on  his  tongue  a  hundred  times  to  tell 
her  that  that  something  was  Delia  Gasgoyne.  He  did 


THE  OLD  ADAM  AND  THE  GARDEN.   219 

not.  Perhaps  because  it  seemed  so  grotesque,  perhaps 
because  it  was  easier  to  drift.  Besides,  as  he  said  to 
himself,  he  would  soon  go  to  join  the  yacht  at  Gi- 
braltar, and  all  this  would  be  over — over.  All  this  ? 
All  what  ?  A  gipsy,  a  dompteuse — what  was  she  to 
him  ?  She  interested  him,  he  liked  her,  and  she  liked 
him,  but  there  had  been  nothing  more  between  them. 
Near  as  he  was  to  her  now,  he  very  often  saw  her  in 
his  mind's  eye  as  she  passed  over  Ridley  Common, 
looking  towards  him,  her  eyes  shaded  by  her  hand. 

She,  too,  had  continually  said  to  herself  that  this 
man  could  be  nothing  to  her — nothing,  never !  Yet, 
why  not?  Count  Ploare  had  offered  her  his  hand. 
But  she  knew  what  had  been  in  Count  Ploare's  mind. 
Gaston  Belward  was  different — he  had  befriended  her 
father.  She  had  not  singular  scruples  regarding  men, 
for  she  despised  most  of  them.  She  was  not  a  Made- 
moiselle Cerise,  nor  a  Madame  Juliette,  though  they 
were  higher  on  the  plane  of  Art  than  she ;  or  so  the 
world  put  it.  She  had  not  known  a  man  who  had 
not,  one  time  or  another,  shown  himself  common  or 
insulting.  But  since  the  first  moment  she  had  seen 
Gaston,  he  had  treated  her  as  a  lady. 

A  lady?  She  had  seen  enough  to  smile  at  that. 
She  knew  that  she  hadn't  it  in  her  veins,  that  she 
was  very  much  an  actress,  except  in  this  man's  com- 
pany, when  she  was  mostly  natural— as  natural  as  one 
can  be  who  has  a  painful  secret.  They  had  talked 


220  THE  TRESPASSER. 

together — for  how  many  hours?  She  knew  exactly. 
And  he  had  never  descended  to  that  which — she  felt 
instinctively — he  would  not  have  shown  to  the  ladies 
of  his  English  world.  She  knew  what  ladies  were. 
In  her  first  few  weeks  in  Paris,  her  fame  mounting, 
she  had  lunched  with  some  distinguished  people,  who 
entertained  her  as  they  would  have  done  one  of  her 
lions,  if  that  were  possible.  She  understood.  She 
had  a  proud,  passionate  nature ;  she  rebelled  at  this. 
Invitations  were  declined  at  first  on  pink  note-paper 
with  gaudy  flowers  in  a  corner,  afterwards  on  cream- 
laid  vellum,  when  she  saw  what  the  great  folk  did. 

And  so  the  days  went  on,  he  telling  her  of  his  life 
from  his  boyhood  up — all  but  the  one  thing!  But 
that  one  thing  she  came  to  know,  partly  by  instinct, 
partly  by  something  he  accidentally  dropped,  partly 
from  something  Jacques  once  said  to  him.  Well, 
what  did  it  matter  to  her  ?  He  would  go  back ;  she 
would  remain.  It  didn't  matter. — Yet,  why  should 
she  lie  to  herself  ?  It  did  matter.  And  why  should 
she  care  about  that  girl  in  England?  She  was  not 
supposed  to  know.  The  other  had  everything  in  her 
favour;  what  had  Andree  the  gipsy  girl,  or  Made- 
moiselle Victorine,  the  dompteuse  ? 

One  Sunday  evening,  after  dining  together,  she 
asked  him  to  take  her  to  see  Saracen.  It  was  a  long- 
standing promise.  She  had  never  seen  him  riding; 
for  their  hours  did  not  coincide  until  the  late  after- 


THE  OLD  ADAM  AND  THE  GARDEN.   221 

noon  or  evening.  Taking  Annette,  they  went  to  his 
new  apartments.  He  had  furnished  a  large  studio 
as  a  sitting-room,  not  luxuriantly  but  pleasantly.  It 
opened  into  a  pretty  little  garden,  with  a  few  plants 
and  trees.  They  sat  there  while  Jacques  went  for  the 
horse.  Next  door  a  number  of  students  were  singing 
a  song  of  the  boulevards.  It  was  followed  by  one  in 
a  woman's  voice,  sweet  and  clear  and  passionate,  piti- 
fully reckless.  It  was,  as  if  in  pure  contradiction,  the 
opposite  of  the  other, — simple,  pathetic.  At  first 
there  were  laughing  interruptions  from  the  students ; 
but  the  girl  kept  on,  and  soon  silence  prevailed,  save 
for  the  voice : 

"  And  when  the  wine  is  dry  upon  the  lip, 
And  when  the  flower  is  broken  by  the  hand, 
And  when  I  see  the  white  sails  of  thy  ship 
Fly  on,  and  leave  me  there  upon  the  sand : — 
Think  you  that  I  shall  weep  f    Nay,  I  shall  smile : 
The  wine  is  drunk,  the  flower  it  is  gone, — 
One  weeps  not  when  the  days  no  more  beguile,— 
How  shall  the  tear-drops  gather  in  a  stone  *?  " 

When  it  was  ended,  Andree,  who  had  listened  in- 
tently, drew  herself  up  with  a  little  shudder.  She  sat 
long,  looking  into  the  garden,  the  cub  playing  at  her 
feet.  Gaston  did  not  disturb  her.  He  got  refresh- 
ments and  put  them  on  the  table,  rolled  a  cigarette, 
and  regarded  the  scene.  Her  knee  was  drawn  up 
slightly  in  her  hands,  her  hat  was  off,  her  rich  brown 
hair  fell  loosely  about  her  head,  framing  it,  her  dark 


222  THE  TRESPASSER. 

eyes  glowed  under  her  bent  brows.  The  lion's  cub 
crawled  up  on  the  divan,  and  thrust  its  nose  under 
an  arm.  Its  head  clung  to  her  waist.  Who  was  it  ? 
thought  Gaston.  Delilah,  Cleopatra — who  ?  She  was 
lost  in  thought.  She  remained  so  until  the  garden 
door  opened,  and  Jacques  entered  with  Saracen. 

She  looked.  Suddenly  she  came  to  her  feet  with 
a  cry  of  delight,  and  ran  out  towards  the  horse. 
There  was  something  essentially  childlike  in  her, 
something  also  painfully  wild — an  animal,  and  a 
philosopher,  and  twenty-three ! 

Jacques  put  out  his  hand  as  he  had  done  with 
Mademoiselle  Cerise. 

"  No,  no ;  he  is  savage ! " 

"  Nonsense ! "  she  rejoined,  and  came  closer. 

Gaston  watched,  interested.  He  guessed  what  she 
would  do. 

"  A  horse !  "  she  added. — "  You  have  seen  my 
lions  !  Leave  him  free  :  stand  away  from  him." 

Her  words  were  peremptory,  and  Jacques  obeyed. 
The  horse  stood  alone,  a  hoof  pawing  the  ground. 
Presently  it  sprang  away,  then  half -turned  towards 
the  girl,  and  stood  still.  She  kept  talking  to  him  and 
calling  softly,  making  a  coaxing,  animal-like  sound, 
as  she  always  did  with  lions. 

She  stepped  forward  a  little  and  paused.  The 
horse  suddenly  turned  straight  towards  her,  came  over 
slowly,  and,  with  arched  neck,  dropped  his  head  on 


\ 
THE  OLD  ADAM  AND  THE  GARDEN.   223 

her  shoulder.  She  felt  the  folds  of  his  neck  and 
kissed  him.  He  followed  her  about  the  garden  like  a 
dog.  She  brought  him  to  Gaston,  looked  up,  and  said 
with  a  teasing  look : 

"  I  have  conquered  him  :  he  is  mine ! " 

Gaston  looked  her  in  her  eyes. 

"  He  is  yours." 

"And  you?" 

"  He  is  mine."  His  looked  burned  into  her  soul — 
how  deep,  how  joyful ! 

She  turned  away,  her  face  going  suddenly  pale. 
She  kept  the  horse  for  some  time,  but  at  last  gave 
him  up  again  to  Jacques.  Gaston  stepped  from  the 
doorway  into  the  garden  and  met  her.  It  was  now 
dusk.  Annette  was  inside.  They  walked  together  in 
silence  for  a  time.  Presently  she  drew  close  to  him. 
He  felt  his  veins  bounding.  Her  hand  slid  into  his 
arm,  and,  dark  as  it  was,  he  could  see  her  eyes  lifting 
to  his,  shining,  profound.  They  had  reached  the  end 
of  the  garden,  and  now  turned  to  come  back  again. 

Suddenly  he  said,  his  eyes  holding  hers : 

"  The  horse  is  yours — and  mine ! " 

She  stood  still ;  but  he  could  see  her  bosom  heav- 
ing hard.  She  threw  up  her  head  with  a  sound  half 
sob,  half  laugh.  .  .  . 

"  You  are  mad ! "  she  said  a  moment  afterwards, 
as  she  lifted  her  head  from  his  breast. 

He  laughed  softly,  catching  her  cheek  to  his. 


224  THE  TRESPASSER. 

"  Why  be  sane  ?    It  was  to  be." 

"  The  gipsy  and  the  gentleman  ?  " 

"  Gipsies  all ! " 

"And  the  end  of  it?" 

"  Do  you  not  love  me,  Andree  ?  " 

She  caught  her  hands  over  her  eyes. 

"  I  do  not  know  what  it  is — only  that  it  is  madness ! 
I  see,  oh !  I  see  a  hundred  things ! " 

Her  hot  eyes  were  on  space. 

"  What  do  you  see  ?  "  he  urged. 

She  gave  a  sudden  cry : 

"  I  see  you  at  my  feet — dead ! " 

"  Better  than  you  at  mine,  dearest." 

"  Let  us  go,"  she  said  hurriedly. 

"  Wait,"  he  whispered. 

They  talked  for  a  little  time.  Then  they  entered 
the  studio.  Annette  was  asleep  in  her  chair.  Andree 
waked  her,  and  they  bade  Gaston  good -night. 


CHAPTER  XVI. 


WILL. 

IN  another  week  it  was  announced  that  Mademoi- 
selle Victorine  would  take  a  month's  holiday ;  to  the 
sorrow  of  her  chief,  and  to  the  delight  of  Mr.  Meyer- 
beer, who  had  not  yet  discovered  his  man,  though  he 
had  a  pretty  scandal  well-nigh  brewed. 

Count  Ploare  was  no  more,  Gaston  Belward  was. 
Zoug-Zoug  was  in  the  country  at  Fontainebleau,  work- 
ing at  his  picture.  He  had  left  on  the  morning  after 
Gaston  discovered  Andree.  He  had  written,  asking 
his  nephew  to  come  for  some  final  sittings.  Possibly, 
he  said,  Mademoiselle  Cerise  and  others  would  be  down 
for  a  Sunday.  Gaston  had  not  gone,  had  briefly  de- 
clined. His  uncle  shrugged  his  shoulders,  and  went 
on  with  other  work.  It  would  end  in  his  having  to  go 
to  Paris  and  finish  the  picture  there,  he  said.  Per- 
haps the  youth  was  getting  into  mischief  ?  So  much 
the  better.  He  took  no  newspapers. — What  did  an 
artist  need  of  them  ?  He  did  not  even  read  the  notices 
sent  by  a  press-cutting  agency.  He  had  a  model  with 


226  THE  TRESPASSER. 

him.  She  amused  him  for  the  time,  but  it  was  un- 
satisfactory working  on  "  The  King  of  Ys  "  from  pho- 
tographs. He  loathed  it,  and  gave  it  up. 

One  evening  G-aston  and  Andree  met  at  the  Gare 
Montparnasse.  Jacques  was  gone  on,  but  Annette  was 
there.  Meyerbeer  was  there  also,  at  a  safe  distance. 
He  saw  Gaston  purchase  tickets,  arrange  his  baggage, 
and  enter  the  train.  He  passed  the  compartment, 
looking  in.  Besides  the  three,  there  was  a  priest  and  a 
young  soldier. 

Gaston  saw  him,  and  guessed  what  brought  him 
there.  He  had  an  impulse  to  get  out  and  shake  him 
as  would  Andree's  cub  a  puppy.  But  the  train  moved 
off.  Meyerbeer  found  Gaston's  porter.  A  franc  did 
the  business. 

"  Douarnenez,  for  Audierne,  Brittany,"  was  the 
legend  written ,  in  Meyerbeer's  note-book.  And  after 
that :  "  Journey  twenty  hours — change  at  Kennes,  Re- 
don,  and  Quimpere." 

"  Too  far.  I've  enough  for  now,"  said  Meyerbeer, 
chuckling,  as  he  walked  away.  "  But  I'd  give  five 
hundred  dollars  to  know  who  Zoug-Zoug  is.  I'll 
make  another  try." 

So  he  held  his  sensation  back  for  a  while  yet.  Of 
the  colony  at  the  H6tel  St.  Malo,  not  one  of  the  three 
who  knew  would  tell  him.  Bagshot  had  sworn  the 
others  to  secrecy. 

Jacques  had  gone  on  with  the  horses.     He  was  to 


LOVE  KNOWS  NO  LAW  SAVE  MAN'S  WILL.    227 

rent  a  house,  or  get  rooms  at  a  hotel.  He  did  very 
well.  The  horses  were  stalled  at  the  Hotel  de  France. 
He  had  rented  an  old  chateau  perched  upon  a  hill, 
with  steps  approaching,  steps  flanking;  near  it 
strange  narrow  alleys,  leading  where  one  cared  not  to 
search ;  a  garden  of  pears  and  figs,  and  grapes,  and 
innumerable  flowers  and  an  arbour;  a  pavilion,  all 
windows,  over  an  entrance- way,  with  a  shrine  in  it — 
a  be-starred  shrine  below  it ;  bare  floors,  simple  furni- 
ture, primitiveness  at  every  turn. 

Gaston  and  Andree  came,  of  choice,  with  a  courier 
in  a  racketing  old  diligence  from  Douarnenez,  and 
they  laughed  with  delight,  tired  as  they  were,  at  the 
new  quarters.  It  must  be  a  gipsy  kind  of  existence 
at  the  most. 

There  were  rooms  for  Jacques  and  Annette,  who 
at  once  set  to  work  with  the  help  of  a  little  Breton 
maid.  Jacques  had  not  ordered  a  dinner  at  the  hotel, 
but  had  got  in  fresh  fish,  lobsters,  chickens,  eggs,  and 
other  necessaries ;  and  all  was  ready  for  a  meal  which 
could  be  got  in  an  hour. 

Jacques  had  now  his  hour  of  happiness.  He 
knew  not  of  these  morals — they  were  beyond  him; 
but  after  a  cheerful  dinner  in  the  pavilion,  with  an 
omelette  made  by  Andree  herself,  Annette  went  to 
her  room  and  cried  herself  to  sleep.  She  was  civilised, 
poor  soul !  and  here  they  were  a  stone's  throw  from 
the  cure  and  the  church !  Gaston  and  Andree,  re- 


228  THE  TRESPASSER. 

freshed,  travelled  down  the  long  steps  to  the  village, 
over  the  place,  along  the  quay,  to  the  lighthouse  and 
the  beach,  through  crowds  of  sardine-fishers  and  sim- 
ple hard-tongued  Bretons.  Cheerful,  buoyant  at  din- 
ner, there  now  came  upon  the  girl  an  intense  quiet 
and  fatigue.  She  stood  and  looked  long  at  the  sea. 
G-aston  tried  to  rouse  her. 

"  This  is  your  native  Brittany,  Andree  ?  "  he  said. 
She  pointed  far  over  the  sea  : 
"  Near  that  light  at  Penmark  I  was  born." 
"  Can  you  speak  the  Breton  language  ?  " 
"  Far  worse  than  you  speak  Parisian  French." 
He  laughed.    "  You  are  so  little  like  these  people ! " 
She  had  vanity.     That  had  been  part  of  her  life. 
Her  beauty  had  brought  trade  when  she  was  a  gipsy  ; 
she  had  been  the  admired  of  Paris:  she  was  only 
twenty-three.      Presently    she   became    restless,  and 
shrank  from  him.     Her   eyes  had   a  flitting  hunted 
look.     Once  they  met  his  with  a  wild  sort  of  pleading 
or  revolt,  he  could  not  tell  which,  and  then  were  con- 
tinually turned  away.     If  either  could  have  known 
how  hard  the  little  dwarf  of  sense  and  memory  was 
trying  to  tell  her  something  ! 

This  new  phase  stunned  him.  What  did  it  mean  ? 
He  touched  her  hand.  It  was  hot,  and  withdrew 
from  his.  He  put  his  arm  around  her,  and  she 
shivered,  cringed.  But  then  she  was  a  woman,  he 
thought.  He  had  met  one  unlike  any  he  had  ever 


LOVE  KNOWS  NO  LAW  SAVE  MAN'S  WILL.    229 

known.  He  would  wait.  He  would  be  patient.  Would 
she  come — hon^e  ?  She  turned  passively  and  took  his 
arm.  He  talked,  but  he  knew  he  was  talking  poorly, 
and  at  last  he  became  silent  also.  But  when  they 
came  to  the  steep  steps  leading  to  the  chateau,  he 
lifted  her  in  his  arms,  carried  her  to  the  house,  and 
left  her  at  their  chamber-door. 

Then  he  went  to  the  pavilion  to  smoke.  He  had 
no  wish  to  think — at  least  of  anything  but  the  girl. 
It  was  not  a  time  for  retrospect,  but  to  accept  a  situ- 
ation. The  die  had  been  cast.  He  had  followed 
what  ? — his  nature,  his  instincts.  The  consequence  ? 

He  heard  Andree's  voice.     He  went  to  her. 

The  next  morning  they  were  in  the  garden  walk- 
ing about.  They  had  been  speaking,  but  now  both 
were  silent.  At  last  he  turned  again  to  her. 

"  Andree,  who  was  the  other  man  ? "  he  asked 
quietly,  but  with  a  strange  troubled  look  in  his  eyes. 

She  shrank  away  confused,  a  kind  of  sickness  in 
her  eyes. 

"  What  does  it  matter  ?  "  she  said. 

"  Of  course,  of  course,"  he  returned  in  a  low, 
nerveless  tone. 

They  were  silent  for  a  long  time.  Meanwhile,  she 
seemed  to  beat  up  a  feverish  cheerfulness.  At  last 
she  said : 

"  Where  do  we  go  this  afternoon,  Gaston  ?  " 

"  We  will  see,"  he  replied. 


230  THE  TRESPASSER. 

The  day  passed,  another,  and  another.  The  same  : 
she  shrank  from  him,  was  impatient,  agitated,  un- 
happy, went  out  alone.  Annette  saw,  and  mourned, 
entreated,  prayed ;  Jacques  was  miserable.  There  was 
no  joyous  passion  to  redeem  the  situation  for  which 
Gaston  had  risked  so  much. 

They  rode,  they  took  excursions  in  fishing-boats 
and  little  sail-boats.  Andree  entered  into  these  with 
zest :  talked  to  the  sailors,  to  Jacques,  caressed  chil- 
dren, and  was  not  indifferent  to  the  notice  she 
attracted  in  the  village;  but  was  obviously  distrait. 
Gaston  was  patient — and  unhappy.  So,  this  was  the 
merchandise  for  which  he  had  bartered  all !  But  he 
had  a  will,  he  was  determined ;  he  had  sowed,  he 
would  reap  his  harvest  to  the  useless  stubble. 

"Do  you  wish  to  go  back  to  your  work ? "  he  said 
quietly,  once. 

"  I  have  no  work,"  she  answered  apathetically. 

He  said  no  more  just  then. 

The  days  and  weeks  went  by.  The  situation  was 
impossible  :  not  to  be  understood.  Gaston  made  his 
final  move.  He  hoped  that  perhaps  a  forced  crisis 
might  bring  about  a  change.  If  it  failed — he  knew 
not  what ! 

She  was  sitting  in  the  garden  below, — he  alone  in 
the  window,  smoking.  A  bundle  of  letters  and  papers, 
brought  by  the  postman  that  evening,  were  beside 
him.  He  would  not  open  them  yet.  He  felt  that 


LOVE  KNOWS  NO  LAW  SAVE  MAN'S  WILL.    231 

there  was  trouble  in  them — he  saw  phrases,  sentences 
flitting  past  him.  But  he  would  play  this  other  bitter 
game  out  first.  He  let  them  lie.  He  heard  the  bells 
in  the  church  ringing  the  village  commerce  done — it 
was  nine  o'clock.  The  picture  of  that  other  garden 
in  Paris  came  to  him:  that  night  when  he  had 
first  taken  this  girl  into  his  arms.  She  sat  below 
talking  to  Annette  and  singing  a  little  Breton 

chanson : 

"  Parvondt  varbondt  anan  oun, 

Et  die  don  la  lire ! 
Parvondt  varbondt  anan  oun, 
Et  die  don  la,  la!" 

He  called  down  to  her  presently. 

"  Andree ! " 

"Yes." 

"  Will  you  come  up  for  a  moment,  please  ?  " 

"  Surely." 

She  came  up,  leaving  the  room-door  open,  and 
bringing  the  cub  with  her.  He  called  Jacques. 

"  Take  the  cub  to  its  quarters,  Jacques,"  he  said, 
quietly. 

She  seemed  about  to  protest,  but  sat  back  and 
watched  him.  He  shut  the  door — locked  it.  Then 
he  came  and  sat  down  before  her. 

"  Andree,"  he  said,  "  this  is  all  impossible." 

"What  is  impossible?" 

"  You  know  well.  I  am  not  a  mere  brute.  The 
only  thing  that  can  redeem  this  life  is  affection." 


232  THE  TRESPASSER. 

"  That  is  true,"  she  said,  coldly.     "  What  then  ?  " 

"  You  do  not  redeem  it.     We  must  part." 

She  laughed  fitfully.     "  We  must ?  " 

She  leaned  towards  him. 

"  To-morrow  evening  you  will  go  back  to  Paris. 
To-night  we  part,  however:  that  is,  our  relations 
cease." 

"  I  shall  go  from  here  when  it  pleases  me,  Gas- 
ton  ! " 

His  voice  came  low  and  stern,  but  courteous : 

"  You  must  go  when  I  tell  you.  Do  you  .think  I 
am  the  weaker  ?  " 

He  could  see  her  colour  flying,  her  fingers  lacing 
and  interlacing. 

"  Aren't  you  afraid  to  tell  me  that  ?  "  she  said. 

"Afraid?  Of  my  life— you  mean  that?  That 
you  will  be  as  common  as  that  ?  No :  you  will  do  as 
I  tell  you." 

He  fixed  his  eyes  on  hers,  and  held  them.  She 
sat,  looking.  Presently  she  tried  to  take  her  eyes 
away.  She  could  not.  She  shuddered  and  shrank. 

He  withdrew  his  eyes  for  a  moment. 

"  You  will  go?  "  he  asked. 

"It  makes  no  difference,"  she  answered;  then 
added  sharply :  "  Who  are  you,  to  look  at  me  like 
that,  to ! " 

She  paused. 

"  I  am  your  master !  " 


LOVE  KNOWS  NO  LAW  SAVE  MAN'S  WILL.    233 

He  rose.  "  Good-night,"  he  said,  at  the  door,  and 
went  out. 

He  heard  the  key  turn  in  the  lock.  He  had  for- 
gotten his  papers  and  letters.  It  did  not  matter. 
He  would  read  them  when  she  was  gone — if  she  did 
go.  He  was  far  from  sure  that  he  had  succeeded. 
He  went  to  bed  in  another  room,  and  was  soon 


He  was  waked  in  the  very  early  morning  by  feel- 
ing a  face  against  his,  wet,  trembling. 

"  What  is  it,  Andree  ?  "  he  asked. 

Her  arms  ran  round  his  neck. 

"  Oh,  mon  amour  !  Mon  adore  !  Je  t'aime  !  Je 
faime!" 

In  the  evening  of  this  day  she  said  she  knew  not 
how  it  was,  but  on  that  first  evening  in  Audierne 
there  suddenly  came  to  her  a  strange  terrible  feeling, 
which  seemed  to  dry  up  all  the  springs  of  her  desire 
for  him.  She  could  not  help  it.  She  had  fought 
against  it,  but  it  was  no  use ;  yet  she  knew  that  she 
could  not  leave  him.  After  he  had  told  her  to  go,  she 
had  had  a  bitter  struggle :  now  tears,  now  anger,  and 
a  wish  to  hate.  At  last  she  fell  asleep.  When  she 
awoke  she  had  changed,  she  was  her  old  self,  as  in 
Paris,  when  she  had  first  confessed  her  love.  She  felt 
that  she  must  die  if  she  did  not  go  to  him.  All  the 
first  passion  returned,  the  passion  that  began  on  the 

common  at  Ridley  Court. 
16 


234:  THE  TRESPASSER. 

"  And  now — now,"  she  said,  "  I  know  that  I  can- 
not live  without  you." 

It  seemed  so.  Her  nature  was  emptying  itself. 
Gaston  had  got  the  merchandise  for  which  he  had 
given  a  price  yet  to  be  known. 

"  You  asked  me  of  the  other  man,"  she  said.  "  I 
will  tell  you." 

"  Not  now,"  he  said.     "  You  loved  him  ?  " 

"  No — dear  God,  no !  "  she  answered. 

An  hour  after,  when  she  was  in  her  room,  he 
opened  the  little  bundle  of  correspondence. — A  memo- 
randum with  money  from  his  bankers.  A  letter  from 
Delia,  and  also  one  from  Mrs.  Gasgoyne,  saying  that 
they  expected  to  meet  him  at  Gibraltar  on  a  certain 
day,  and  asking  why  he  had  not  written  ;  Delia  with 
sorrowful  reserve,  Mrs.  Gasgoyne  with  impatience. 
His  letters  had  missed  them — he  had  written  on 
leaving  Paris,  saying  that  his  plans  were  indefinite, 
but  he  would  write  them  definitely  soon.  After  he 
came  to  Audierne  it  seemed  impossible  to  write.  How 
could  he  ?  No,  let  the  American  journalist  do  it. 
Better  so.  Better  himself  in  the  worst  light,  with  the 
full  penalty,  than  his  own  confession — in  itself  an 
insult.  So  it  had  gone  on. 

He  slowly  tore  up  the  letters.  The  next  were  from 
his  grandfather  and  grandmother — they  did  not  know 
yet.  He  could  not  read  them.  A  few  loving  sen- 
tences, and  then  he  said : 


LOVE  KNOWS  NO  LAW  SAVE  MAN'S  WILL.    235 

"  What's  the  good  !    Better  not ! " 

He  tore  them  up  also. 

Another — from  his  uncle.     It  was  brief : 

"  You've  made  a  sweet  mess  of  it,  Cadet.  It's  in  all  the  pa- 
pers to-day.  Meyerbeer  telegraphed  it  to  New  York  and  London. 
I'll  probably  come  down  to  see  you.  I  want  to  finish  my  picture 
on  the  site  of  the  old  City  of  Ys,  there  at  Point  du  Raz.  Your 
girl  can  pose  with  you.  I'll  do  all  I  can  to  clear  the  thing  up. 
But  a  British  M.  P.— that's  a  tough  pill  for  Clapham ! " 

Gaston's  foot  tapped  the  floor  angrily.  He  scat- 
tered the  pieces  of  the  letter  at  his  feet.  Now  for  the 
newspapers.  He  opened  Le  Petit  Journal,  Gil  Bias, 
Oalignani,  and  the  New  York  Tom-Tom,  one  by  one. 
Yes,  it  was  there,  with  pictures  of  himself  and  Andree. 
A  screaming  sensation.  Extracts,  too,  from  the  Eng- 
lish papers  by  telegram.  He  read  them  all  unflinch- 
ingly. There  was  one  paragraph  which  he  did  not 
understand : 

"  There  was  a  previous  lover,  unknown  to  the  public,  called 
Zoug-Zoug." 

He  remembered  that  day  at  the  H6tel  St.  Malo ! 

Well,  the  bolt  was  shot :  the  worst  was  over.  Quid 
refert  9  Justify  himself  ? 

Certainly,  to  all  but  Delia  Gasgoyne. 

Thousands  of  men  did  the  same — did  it  in  cold 
blood,  without  one  honest  feeling.  He  did  it,  at  least 
under  a  powerful  influence.  He  could  not  help  but 
smile  now  at  the  thought  of  how  he  had  filled  both  sides 


236  THE  TRESPASSER. 

of  the  equation.  On  his  father's  side,  bringing  down  the 
mad  record  from  Naseby ;  on  his  mother's,  true  to  the 
heathen,  by  following  his  impulses — sacred  to  primi- 
tive man,  justified  by  spear,  arrow,  and  a  strong  arm. 
Why  sheet  home  this  as  a  scandal  ?  How  did  they — 
the  libellers — know  but  what  he  had  married  the  girl  ? 

Exactly.  He  would  see  to  that.  He  would  play 
his  game  with  open  sincerity  now.  He  could  have 
wished  secrecy  for  Delia  Gasgoyne,  and  for  his  grand- 
father and  grandmother, — he  was  not  wilfully  brutal, 
— but  otherwise  he  had  no  shame  at  all ;  he  would 
stand  openly  for  his  right.  Better  one  honest  passion 
than  a  life  of  deception  and  miserable  compromise.  A 
British  M.  P.  ? — He  had  thrown  away  his  reputation, 
said  the  papers.  By  this  ? — The  girl  was  no  man's 
wife,  he  no  woman's  husband ! 

Marry  her  ?  Yes,  he  would  marry  her ;  she  should 
be  his  wife.  His  people  ?  It  was  a  pity.  Poor  old 
people — they  would  fret  and  worry.  He  had  been 
selfish,  had  not  thought  of  them  ?  Well,  who  could 
foresee  this  outrage  of  journalism?  The  luck  had 
been  dead  against  him.  Did  he  not  know  plenty  of 
men  in  London — he  was  going  to  say  the  Commons, 
but  he  was  fairer  to  the  Commons  than  it,  as  a  body, 
would  be  to  him — who  did  much  worse  ?  These  had 
escaped :  the  hunters  had  been  after  him.  What 
would  he  do  ?  Take  the  whip  ?  He  got  to  his  feet 
with  an  oath.  Take  the  whip !  Never — never !  He 


LOVE  KNOWS  NO  LAW  SAVE  MAN'S  WILL.    237 

would  fight  this  thing  tooth  and  nail.  Had  he  come  to 
England  to  let  them  use  him  for  a  sensation  only — a 
sequence  of  surprises,  to  end  in  a  tragedy,  all  for  the 
furtive  pleasure  of  the  British  breakfast- table  ?  No, 
by  the  Eternal !  What  had  the  first  Gaston  done  ? 
He  had  fought — fought  Villiers  and  others,  and  had 
held  up  his  head  beside  his  King  and  Rupert  till  the 
hour  of  Naseby. 

When  the  summer  was  over  he  would  return  to 
Paris,  to  London.  The  journalist — punish  him  ?  No ; 
too  little — a  product  of  his  time.  But  the  British 
people  he  would  fight,  and  he  would  not  give  up 
Ridley  Court.  He  could  throw  the  game  over  when 
it  was  all  his,  but  never  when  it  was  going  dead 
against  him. 

That  speech  in  the  Commons?  He  remembered 
gladly  that  he  had  contended  for  conceptions  of  social 
miseries  according  to  surrounding  influences  of  growth 
and  situation.  He  had  not  played  the  hypocrite. 

No,  not  even  with  Delia.  He  had  acted  honestly 
at  the  beginning,  and  afterwards  he  had  done  what  he 
could  so  long  as  he  could.  It  was  inevitable  that  she 
must  be  hurt,  even  if  he  had  married,  not  giving  her 
what  he  had  given  this  dompteuse.  After  all,  was  it 
so  terrible  ?  It  could  not  affect  her  much  in  the  eyes 
of  the  world.  And  her  heart?  He  did  not  flatter 
himself.  Yet  he  knew  that  it  would  be  the  thing — 
the  fallen  idol — that  would  grieve  her  more  than 


238  THE  TRESPASSER. 

thought  of  the  man.  He  wished  that  he  could  have 
spared  her  in  the  circumstances.  But  it  had  all 
come  too  suddenly :  it  was  impossible.  He  had 
spared,  he  could  spare,  nobody.  There  was  the  whole 
situation. 

What  now  to  do  ? — To  remain  here  while  it  pleased 
them,  then  Paris,  then  London  for  his  fight. 

Three  days  went  round.  There  were  idle  hours  by 
the  sea,  little  excursions  in  a  sail-boat  to  Penmark, 
and  at  last  to  Point  du  Eaz.  It  was  a  beautiful  day, 
with  a  gentle  breeze,  and  the  point  was  glorified.  The 
boat  ran  in  lightly  between  the  steep  dark  shore  and 
the  comb  of  reef  that  looked  like  a  host  of  stealthy 
pumas  crumbling  the  water.  They  anchored  in  the 
Bay  des  Trepasses.  An  hour  on  shore  exploring  the 
caves,  and  lunching,  and  then  they  went  back  to  the 
boat,  accompanied  by  a  Breton  sailor,  who  had  acted 
as  guide. 

Gaston  lay  reading, — they  were  in  the  shade  of  the 
cliff, — while  Andree  listened  to  the  Breton  tell  the 
legends  of  the  coast.  At  length  Gaston's  attention 
was  attracted.  The  old  sailor  was  pointing  to  the 
shore,  and  speaking  in  bad  French. 

"  Voila,  madame,  where  the  City  of  Ys  stood  long 
before  the  Bretons  came.  It  was  a  foolish  ride." 

"  I  do  not  know  the  story.     Tell  me." 

"  There  are  two  or  three,  but  mine  is  the  oldest. 
A  flood  came — sent  by  the  gods,  for  the  woman  was 


LOVE  KNOWS  NO  LAW  SAVE  MAN'S  WILL.    239 

impious.  The  king  must  ride  with  her  into  the  sea 
and  leave  her  there,  himself  to  come  back,  and  so  save 
the  city." 

The  sailor  paused  to  scan  the  sea — something  had 
struck  him.  He  shook  his  head.  Gaston  was  watch- 
ing Andree  from  behind  his  book. 

"  Well,  well,"  she  said,  impatiently,  "  what  then  ? 
What  did  he  do?" 

"  The  king  took  up  the  woman,  and  rode  into  the 
water  as  far  as  where  you  see  the  great  white  stone — it 
has  been  there  ever  since.  There  he  had  a  fight — not 
with  the  woman,  but  in  his  heart.  He  turned  to  the 
people,  and  cried :  '  Dry  be  your  streets,  and  as  ashes 
your  eyes  for  your  king  ! '  And  then  he  rode  on  with 
the  woman  till  they  saw  him  no  more — never  ! " 

Andree  said  instantly : 

"  That  was  long  ago.  Now  the  king  would  ride 
back  alone." 

She  did  not  look  at  Gaston,  but  she  knew  that  his 
eyes  were  on  her.  He  closed  the  book,  got  up,  came 
forward  to  the  sailor,  who  was  again  looking  out  to 
sea,  and  said  carelessly  over  his  shoulder : 

"  Men  who  lived  centuries  ago  would  act  the  same 
now,  if  they  were  here." 

Her  response  seemed  quite  as  careless  as  his : 

"  How  do  you  know  ?  " 

"  Perhaps  I  had  an  innings  then ! "  he  answered, 
smiling  whimsically. 


240  THE   TRESPASSER. 

She  was  about  to  speak  again,  but  the  guide  sud- 
denly said : 

"You  must  get  away.  There'll  be  a  change  of 
wind  and  a  bad  cross-current  soon." 

In  a  few  minutes  the  two  were  bearing  out — none 
too  soon,  for  those  pumas  crowded  up  once  or  twice 
within  a  fathom  of  their  deck,  devilish  and  devouring. 
But  they  wore  away  with  a  capricious  current,  and 
down  a  tossing  sea  made  for  Audierne. 


CHAPTEE  XVII. 

THE  MAN  AND  THE  WOMAN  FACE  THE  INTOLERABLE. 

IN  a  couple  of  hours  they  rounded  Point  de 
Leroily,  and  ran  for  the  harbour.  By  hugging  the 
quay  in  the  channel  to  the  left  of  the  bar,  they  were 
sure  of  getting  in,  though  the  tide  was  low.  The 
boat  was  docile  to  the  lug-sail  and  the  helm.  As 
they  were  beating  in  they  saw  a  large  yacht  running 
straight  across  a  corner  of  the  bar  for  the  channel. 
It  was  Warren  Gasgoyne's  Kismet. 

The  Kismet  had  put  into  Audierne  rather  than 
try  to  pass  Point  du  Baz  at  night.  At  Gibraltar  a 
telegram  had  come  telling  of  the  painful  sensation, 
and  the  yacht  was  instantly  headed  for  England ;  Mrs. 
Gasgoyne  crossing  the  Continent,  Delia  preferring  to 
go  back  with  her  father — his  sympathy  was  more 
tender.  They  had  seen  no  newspapers,  and  they  did 
not  know  that  Gaston  was  at  Audierne.  Gasgoyne 
knowing,  as  all  the  world  knew,  that  there  was  a  bar 
at  the  mouth  of  the  harbour,  allowed  himself,  as  he 
thought,  sufficient  room,  but  the  wind  had  suddenly 
drawn  ahead,  and  he  was  obliged  to  keep  away. 


24:2  THE  TRESPASSER. 

Presently  the  yacht  took  the  ground  with  great 
force. 

Gasgoyne  put  the  helm  hard  down,  but  she  would 
not  obey.  He  tried  at  once  to  get  in  his  sails,  but 
the  surf  was  running  very  strong,  and  presently  a 
heavy  sea  broke  clean  over  her.  Then  came  con- 
fusion and  dismay:  the  flapping  of  the  wet,  half- 
lowered  sails,  and  the  whipping  of  the  slack  ropes, 
making  all  effort  useless.  There  was  no  chance  of 
her  holding.  Foot  by  foot  she  was  being  driven 
towards  the  rocks.  Sailors  stood  motionless  on  the 
shore.  The  lifeboat  would  be  of  little  use :  besides, 
it  could  not  arrive  for  some  time. 

Gaston  had  recognised  the  Kismet.  He  turned  to 
Andr6e. 

"  There's  danger,  but  perhaps  we  can  do  it.  Will 
you  go?" 

She  flushed. 

"Have  I  ever  been  a  coward,  Gaston.  Tell  me 
what  to  do." 

"  Keep  the  helm  firm,  and  act  instantly  on  my 
orders." 

Instead  of  coming  round  into  the  channel,  he  kept 
straight  on  past  the  light-house  towards  the  yacht, 
until  he  was  something  to  seaward  of  her.  Then, 
luffing  quickly,  he  dropped  sail,  let  go  the  anchor,  and 
unshipped  the  mast,  while  Andree  got  the  oars  into 
the  rowlocks.  It  was  his  idea  to  dip  under  the  yacht's 


MAN  AND  WOMAN  FACE  THE  INTOLERABLE.    243 

stern,  but  he  found  himself  drifting  alongside,  and  in 
danger  of  dashing  broadside  on  her.  He  got  an  oar 
and  backed  with  all  his  strength  towards  the  stern, 
the  anchor  holding  well.  Then  he  called  to  those  on 
board  to  be  ready  to  jump.  Once  in  line  with  the 
Kismetfs  counter,  he  eased  off  the  painter  rapidly,  and 
now  dropped  towards  the  stern  of  the  wreck. 

Gaston  was  quite  cool.  He  did  not  now  think  of 
the  dramatic  nature  of  this  meeting,  apart  from  the 
physical  danger.  Delia  also  had  recognised  him,  and 
guessed  who  the  girl  was.  Not  to  respond  to  Gaston's 
call  was  her  first  instinct.  But  then,  life  was  sweet. 
Besides,  she  had  to  think  of  others.  Her  father,  too, 
was  chiefly  concerned  for  her  safety  and  for  his  yacht. 
He  had  almost  determined  to  get  Delia  on  Gaston's 
boat,  and  himself  take  the  chances  with  the  Kismet ; 
but  his  sailors  dissuaded  him,  declaring  that  the 
chances  were  against  succour. 

The  only  greetings  were  words  of  warning  and 
direction  from  Gaston.  Presently  there  was  an  op- 
portunity. Gaston  called  sharply  to  Delia,  and  she, 
standing  ready,  jumped.  He  caught  her  in  his  arms 
as  she  came.  The  boat  swayed  as  the  others  leaped, 
and  he  held  her  close  meanwhile.  Her  eyes  closed, 
she  shuddered  and  went  white.  When  he  put  her 
down,  she  covered  her  face  with  her  hands,  trembling. 
Then,  suddenly  she  came  huddling  in  a  heap,  and 
burst  into  tears. 


244  THE  TRESPASSER. 

They  slipped  the  painter,  a  sailor  took  Andree's 
place  at  the  helm,  the  oars  were  got  out,  and  they 
made  over  to  the  channel,  grazing  the  bar  once  or 
twice,  by  reason  of  the  now  heavy  load. 

Warren  Gasgoyne  and  Gaston  had  not  yet  spoken 
in  the  way  of  greeting.  The  former  went  to  Delia 
now  and  said  a  few  cheery  words,  but,  from  behind 
her  handkerchief,  she  begged  him  to  leave  her  alone 
for  a  moment 

"  Nerves,  all  nerves,  Mr.  Belward ! "  he  said,  turn- 
ing towards  Gaston.  "But,  then,  it  was  ticklish — 
ticklish ! " 

They  did  not  shake  hands.  Gaston  was  looking  at 
Delia,  and  he  did  not  reply. 

Mr.  Gasgoyne  continued : 

"Nasty  sea  coming  on — afraid  to  try  Point  du 
Baz.  Of  course  we  didn't  know  you  were  here." 

He  looked  at  Andree  curiously.  He  was  struck 
by  the  girl's  beauty  and  force.  But  how  different 
from  Delia ! 

He  suddenly  turned,  and  said  bluntly,  in  a  low 
voice : 

"  Belward,  what  a  fool — what  a  fool !  You  had  it 
all  at  your  feet :  the  best — the  very  best ! " 

Gaston  answered  quietly : 

"It's  an  awkward  time  for  talking. — The  rocks 
will  have  your  yacht  in  half  an  hour." 

Gasgoyne  turned  towards  it. 


MAN  AND  WOMAN  FACE  THE  INTOLERABLE.    245 

"  Yes,  she'll  get  a  raking  fore  and  aft."  Then,  he 
added,  suddenly :  "  Of  course  you  know  how  we  feel 
about  our  rescue.  It  was  plucky  of  you ! " 

"  Pluckier  in  the  girl,"  was  the  reply. 

"  Brave  enough ! "  the  honest  rejoinder. 

Gaston  had  an  impulse  to  say,  "  Shall  I  thank  her 
for  you  ?  "  but  he  was  conscious  how  little  right  he  had 
to  be  ironical  with  Warren  Gasgoyne,  and  he  held  his 
peace. 

While  the  two  were  now  turned  away  towards  the 
Kismet,  Andree  came  to  Delia.  She  did  not  quite 
know  how  to  comfort  her,  but  she  was  a  woman,  and 
perhaps  a  supporting  arm  would  do  something. 

"  There,  there,  dear,"  she  said,  passing  a  hand 
round  her  shoulder,  "you  are  all  right  now.  Don't 
cry!" 

With  a  gasp  of  horror,  Delia  got  to  her  feet,  but 
swayed,  and  fell  fainting — into  Andree's  arms. 

She  awoke  near  the  landing-place,  her  father  be- 
side her.  Meanwhile  Andree  had  read  the  riddle.  As 
Mr.  Gasgoyne  bathed  Delia's  face,  and  Gaston  her 
wrists,  and  gave  her  brandy,  she  sat  still  and  intent, 
watching.  Tears  and  fainting !  Would  she — Andree 
— have  given  way  like  that  in  the  same  circumstances? 
No.  But  this  girl — Delia — was  of  a  different  order : 
was  that  it  ?  All  nerves  and  sentiment !  At  one  of 
those  lunches  in  the  grand  world  she  had  seen  a  lady 
burst  into  tears  suddenly  at  someone's  reference  to 


246  THE  TRESPASSER. 

Senegal.  She  herself  had  only  cried  four  times,  that 
she  remembered ; — when  her  mother  died  ;  when  her 
father  was  called  a  thief ;  when,  one  day,  she  suffered 
the  first  great  shame  of  her  life  in  the  mountains  of 
Auvergne ;  and  the  night  when  she  waked  a  second 
time  to  her  love  for  Gaston.— She  dared  to  call  it  love, 
though  good  Annette  had  called  it  a  mortal  sin. 

What  was  to  be  done?  The  other  woman  must 
suffer.  The  man  was  hers — hers  for  ever !  He  had 
said  it :  for  ever.  Yet  her  heart  had  a  wild  hunger 
for  that  something  which  this  girl  had  and  she  had 
not.  But  the  man  was  hers !  She  had  won  him  away 
from  this  other. 

Delia  came  upon  the  quay  bravely,  passing  through 
the  crowd  of  staring  fishermen,  who  presently  gave 
Gaston  a  guttural  cheer.  Three  of  them,  indeed,  had 
been  drinking  his  health.  They  embraced  him  and 
kissed  him,  begging  him  to  come  with  them  for  ab- 
sinthe. He  arranged  the  matter  with  a  couple  of 
francs. 

Then  he  wondered  what  now  was  to  be  done.  He 
could  not  insult  the  Gasgoynes  by  asking  them  to 
come  to  the  chateau.  He  proposed  the  Hotel  de 
France  to  Mr.  Gasgoyne,  who  assented.  It  was  difficult 
to  separate  here  on  the  quay :  they  must  all  walk  to- 
gether to  the  hotel.  Gaston  turned  to  speak  to  An- 
dree,  but  she  was  gone.  She  had  saved  the  situa- 
tion. 


MAN  AND  WOMAN  FACE  THE  INTOLERABLE.    24/7 

The  three  spoke  little,  and  then  but  formally,  as 
they  walked  to  the  hotel.    Mr.  Gasgoyne  said  that  they 
would  leave  by  train  for  Paris  the  next  day,  going  to  , 
Douarnenez  that  evening.     They  had  saved  nothing 
from  the  yacht. 

Delia  did  not  speak.  She  was  pale,  composed  now. 
In  the  hotel  Mr.  Gasgoyne  arranged  for  rooms,  while 
Gaston  got  some  sailors  together,  and,  in  Mr.  Gas- 
goyne's  name,  offered  a  price  for  the  recovery  of  the 
yacht  or  of  certain  things  in  her.  Then  he  went  into 
the  hotel  to  see  if  he  could  do  anything  further.  The 
door  of  the  sitting-room  was  open,  and  no  answer  com- 
ing to  his  knock,  he  entered. 

Delia  was  standing  in  the  window.  Against  her 
will  her  father  had  gone  to  find  a  doctor.  Gaston 
would  have  drawn  back  if  she  had  not  turned  round 
wearily  to  him. 

Perhaps  it  were  well  to  get  it  over  now !  He  came 
forward.  She  made  no  motion. 

"  I  hope  you  feel  better  ?  "  he  said.  "  It  was  a  bad 
accident." 

"  I  am  tired  and  shaken,  of  course,"  she  responded. 
"  It  was  very  brave  of  you." 

He  hesitated,  then  said : 

"  "We  were  more  fortunate  than  brave." 

He  was  determined  to  have  Andre e  included.  She 
deserved  that ;  the  wrong  to  Delia  was  not  hers. 

But  she  answered  after  the  manner  of  a  woman : 


248  THE  TRESPASSER. 

"  The  girl — ah,  yes,  please  thank  her  for  us.  What 
is  her  name  ?  " 

"She  is  known  in  Audierne — as  Madame  Bel- 
ward." 

The  girl  started.  Her  face  had  a  cold,  scornful 
pride. 

"  The  Bretons,  then,  have  a  taste  for  fiction  ?  " 

"  No,  they  speak  as  they  are  taught." 

"  They  understand,  then,  as  little  as  I." 

How  proud,  how  ineffaceably  superior  she  was ! 

"  Be  ignorant  for  ever,"  he  answered  quietly. 

"  I  do  not  need  the  counsel,  believe  me." 

Her  hand  trembled,  though  it  rested  against  the 
window — trembled  with  indignation:  the  insult  of 
his  elopement  kept  beating  up  her  throat  in  spite  of 
her. 

At  that  moment  a  servant  knocked,  entered,  and 
said  that  a  parcel  had  been  brought  for  mademoiselle. 
It  was  laid  upon  the  table.  Delia,  wondering,  ordered 
it  to  be  opened.  A  bundle  of  clothes  was  disclosed — 
Andree's!  Gaston  recognised  them,  and  caught  his 
breath  with  wonder  and  confusion. 

"  Who  has  sent  them? "  Delia  said  to  the  servant. 

"  They  come  from  the  Chateau  Ronan,  mademoi- 
selle." 

Delia  dismissed  the  servant. 

"  The  Chdteau  Ronan  ?  "  she  asked  of  Gaston. 

"  Where  I  am  living." 


MAN  AND  WOMAN  FACE  THE  INTOLERABLE.    249 

"It  is  not  necessary  to  speak  of  this?"  She 
flushed. 

"  Not  at  all.  I  will  have  them  sent  back.  There 
is  a  little  shop  near  by  where  you  can  get  what  you 
may  need." 

Andree  had  acted  according  to  her  lights.  It  was 
not  an  olive-branch,  but  a  touch  of  primitive  hospital- 
ity. She  was  Delia's  enemy  at  sight,  but  a  woman 
must  have  linen. 

Mr.  Gasgoyne  entered.     Gaston  prepared  to  go. 

"  Is  there  anything  more  that  I  can  do  ?  "  he  said, 
as  it  were,  to  both. 

The  girl  replied.     "  Nothing  at  all,  thank  you." 

They  did  not  shake  hands. 

Mr.  Gasgoyne  could  not  think  that  all  had  neces- 
sarily ended.  The  thing  might  be  patched  up  one 
day  yet.  This  affair  with  the  dompteuse  was  mad  sail- 
ing, but  the  man  might  round-to  suddenly  and  be  no 
worse  for  the  escapade. 

"We  are  going  early  in  the  morning,"  he  said. 
"  We  can  get  along  all  right.  Good-bye  !  When  do 
you  come  to  England?/' 

The  reply  was  prompt.     "  In  a  few  weeks." 

He  looked  at  both.  The  girl,  seeing  that  he  was 
going  to  speak  further,  bowed  and  left  the  room. 

His  eyes  followed  her.  After  a  moment,  he  said 
firmly : 

"  Mr.  Gasgoyne,  I  am  going  to  face  all." 
tt 


250  THE  TRESPASSER. 

"  To  live  it  down,  Belward  ?  " 

"  I  am  going  to  fight  it  down ! " 

"Well,  there's  a  difference.  You  have  made  a 
mess  of  things,  and  shocked  us  all.  I  needn't  say 
what  more.  It's  done,  and  now  you  know  what  such 
things  mean  to  a  good  woman — and,  I  hope  also,  to 
the  father  of  a  good  woman." 

The  man's  voice  broke  a  little.     He  added : 

"  They  used  to  come  to  swords  or  pistols  on  such 
points.  We  can't  settle  it  in  that  way.  Anyhow,  you 
have  handicapped  us  to-day."  Then,  with  a  burst 
of  reproach,  indignation,  and  trouble :  "  Great  God ! 
as  if  you  hadn't  been  the  luckiest  man  on  earth ! 
Delia,  the  estate,  the  Commons — all  for  a  domp- 
teuse ! " 

"Let  us  say  nothing  more,"  said  Gaston,  choking 
down  wrath  at  the  reference  to  Andree,  but  sorrowful, 
and  pitying  Mr.  Gasgoyne.  Besides,  the  man  had  a 
right  to  rail. 

Soon  after  they  parted  courteously. 

Gaston  went  to  the  chateau.  As  he  came  up  the 
stone  steps  he  met  a  procession — it  was  the  feast-day 
of  the  Virgin — of  priests  and  people  and  little  chil- 
dren, filing  up  from  the  village  and  the  sea,  singing 
as  they  came.  He  drew  up  to  the  wall,  stood  upon 
the  stone  seat,  and  took  off  his  hat  while  the  proces- 
sion passed.  He  had  met  the  cure,  first  accidentally  on 
the  shore,  and  afterwards  in  the  cure's  house,  finding 


MAN  AND  WOMAN  FACE  THE  INTOLERABLE.    251 

much  in  common — he  had  known  many  priests  in  the 
North,  known  much  good  of  them.  The  cure  glanced 
up  at  him  now  as  they  passed,  and  a  half-sad  smile 
crossed  his  face.  Gaston  caught  it  as  it  passed.  The 
cure  read  his  case  truly  enough  and  gently  enough 
too.  In  some  wise  hour  he  would  plead  with  Gaston 
for  the  woman's  soul  and  his  own. 

Gaston  did  not  find  Andree  at  the  chateau.  She 
had  gone  out  alone  towards  the  sea,  Annette  said,  by 
a  route  at  the  rear  of  the  village.  He  went  also,  but 
did  not  find  her.  As  he  came  again  to  the  quay  he 
saw  the  Kismet  beating  upon  the  rocks — the  sailors 
had  given  up  any  idea  of  saving  her.  He  stood  and 
watched  the  sea  breaking  over  her,  and  the  whole 
scene  flashed  back  on  him.  He,  thought  how  easily 
he  could  be  sentimental  over  the  thing.  But  that 
was  not  his  nature.  He  had  made  his  bed,  but  he 
would  not  lie  in  it — he  would  carry  it  on  his  back. 
They  all  said  that  he  had  gone  on  the  rocks.  He 
laughed. 

"  I  can  turn  that  tide :  I  can  make  things  come 
my  way,"  he  said.  "  All  they  want  is  sensation,  it  isn't 
morals  that  concerns  them.  Well,  I'll  give  them  sen- 
sation !  They  expect  me  to  hide,  and  drop  out  of  the 
game.  Never — so  help  me,  God!  I'll  play  it  so 
they'll  forget  this ! " 

He  rolled  and  lighted  a  cigarette,  and  went  again 
to  the  ch&teau.  Dinner  was  ready — had  been  ready 


252  THE  TRESPASSER. 

for  some  time.  He  sat  down,  and  presently  Andree 
came.  There  was  a  look  in  her  face  that  he  could  not 
understand.  They  ate  their  dinner  quietly,  not  men- 
tioning the  events  of  the  afternoon. 

Presently  a  telegram  was  brought  to  him.  It  read  : 
"  Come.  My  office,  Downing  Street,  Friday.  Expect 
you."  It  was  signed  "  Faramond."  At  the  same  time 
came  letters:  from  his  grandfather,  from  Captain 
Maudsley.  The  first  was  stern,  imperious,  reproach- 
ful.— Shame  for  those  that  took  him  in  and  made  him, 
a  ruined  reputation,  a  spoiled  tradition :  he  had  been 
but  a  heathen  after  all !  There  was  only  left  to  bid 
him  farewell,  and  to  enclose  a  cheque  for  two  thou- 
sand pounds. 

Captain  Maudsley  called  him  a  fool,  and  asked 
him  what  he  meant  to  do — hoped  he  would  give  up 
the  woman  at  once,  and  come  back.  He  owed  some- 
thing to  his  position  as  Master  of  the  Hounds — a 
tradition  that  oughtn't  to  be  messed  about. 

There  it  all  was :  not  a  word  about  radical  morality 
or  immorality ;  but  the  tradition  of  Family,  the  Com- 
mons, Master  of  the  Hounds ! 

But  there  was  another  letter.  He  did  not  recog- 
nise the  handwriting,  and  the  envelope  had  a  black 
edge.  He'  turned  it  over  and  over,  forgetting  that 
Andree  was  watching  him.  Looking  up,  he  caught 
her  eyes,  with  their  strange,  sad  look.  She  guessed 
what  was  in  these  letters.  She  knew  English  well 


MAN  AND  WOMAN  FACE  THE  INTOLERABLE.    253 

enough  to  understand  them.  He  interpreted  her 
look,  and  pushed  them  over. 

"  You  may  read  them,  if  you  wish;  but  I  wouldn't, 
if  I  were  you." 

She  read  the  telegram  first,  and  asked  who  "  Fara- 
mond"  was.  Then  she  read  Sir  William  Belward's 
letter,  and  afterwards  Captain  Maudsley's. 

"  It  has  all  come  at  once,"  she  said :  "  the  girl  and 
these !  What  will  you  do  ?  Give  '  the  woman '  up  for 
the  honour — of  the  Master  of  the  Hounds  ?  " 

The  tone  was  bitter,  exasperating. 

Gaston  was  patient. 

"What  do  you  think,  Andree?" 

"  Oh  !  it  has  only  begun,"  she  said.  "  Wait,  King 
of  Ys.  Eead  that  other  letter." 

Her  eyes  were  fascinated  by  the  black  border.  He 
opened  it  with  a  strange  slowness.  It  began  without 
any  form  of  address,  it  had  the  superscription  of  a 
street  in  Manchester  Square  : 

"  If  you  were  not  in  deep  trouble  I  would  not  write.  But 
because  1  know  that  more  hard  things  than  kind  will  be  said  by 
others,  I  want  to  say  what  is  in  my  heart,  which  is  quick  to  feel 
for  you.  I  know  that  you  have  sinned,  but  I  pray  for  you  every 
day,  and  I  cannot  believe  that  God  will  not  answer.  Oh !  think 
of  the  wrong  that  you  have  done :  of  the  wrong  to  the  girl,  to 
her  soul's  good.  Think  of  that,  and  right  the  wrong  in  so  far 
as  you  can.  Oh,  Gaston,  my  brother ! — I  need  not  explain  why 
1  write  thus.  My  grandfather,  before  he  died,  three  weeks  ago, 
told  me  that  you  know ! — and  I  also  have  known  ever  since  the 
day  you  saved  the  boy.  Oh !  think  of  one  who  would  give  years 
of  her  life  to  see  you  good  and  noble  and  happy.  .  .  ." 


254  THE  TRESPASSER. 

Then  followed  a  deep,  sincere  appeal  to  his  man- 
hood, and  afterwards  a  wish  that  their  real  relations 
should  he  made  known  to  the  world  if  he  needed  her, 
or  if  disaster  came ;  that  she  might  share  and  comfort 
his  life,  whatever  it  might  be.  Then  again : 

"  If  you  love  her,  and  she  loves  you,  and  is  sorry  for  what 
she  has  done,  marry  her  and  save  her  from  everlasting  shame. 
I  am  staying  with  my  grandfather's  cousin,  the  Dean  of  Digh- 
bury,  the  father  of  the  boy  you  saved.  He  is  very  kind,  and  he 
knows  all.  May  God  guide  you  aright,  and  may  you  believe 
that  no  one  speaks  more  truthfully  to  you  than  your  sorrowful 
and  affectionate  sister,  ALICE  WINGFIELD." 

He  put  the  letter  down  beside  him,  made  a  ciga- 
rette, and  poured  out  some  coffee  for  them  both.  He 
was  holding  himself  with  a  tight  hand.  This  letter 
had  touched  him  as  nothing  in  his  life  had  done  since 
his  father's  death.  It  had  nothing  of  noblesse  oblige, 
but  straight  statement  of  wrong,  as  she  saw  it.  And 
a  sister  without  an  open  right  to  the  title :  the  mere 
fidelity  of  blood!  His  father  had  brought  this  sor- 
rowful life  into  the  world  and  he  had  made  it  more 
sorrowful — poor  little  thing — poor  girl ! 

"  What  are  you  going  to  do ? "  said  Andree.  "Do 
you  go  back — with  Delia?" 

He  winced.  Yet  why  should  he  expect  of  her  too 
great  refinement  ?  She  had  not  had  a  chance,  she  had 
not  the  stuff  for  it  in  her  veins ;  she  had  never  been 
taught.  But  behind  it  all  was  her  passion — her  love — 
for  him. 


MAN  AND  WOMAN  FACE  THE  INTOLERABLE.    255 

"  Not  with  her :  you  know  that's  impossible ! "  he 
answered. 

"  She  would  not  take  you  back." 

"  Probably  not.     She  has  pride." 

"  Pride — chut !    She'd  jump  at  the  chance ! " 

"That  sounds  rude,  Andree;  and  it  is  contra- 
dictory." 

"Rude!  Well,  I'm  only  a  gipsy  and  a  domp- 
teuse ! " 

"Is  that  all,  my  girl?" 

"  That's  all,  now."  Then,  with  a  sudden  change 
and  a  quick  sob  :  "  But  I  may  be — Oh,  I  can't  say 
it,  Gaston ! "  She  hid  her  face  for  a  moment  on  his 
shoulder. 

"My  God!" 

He  got  to  his  feet.  He  had  not  thought  of  that — 
of  another  besides  themselves.  He  had  drifted.  A 
hundred  ideas  ran  back  and  forth.  He  went  to  the 
window  and  stood  looking  out.  Alice's  letter  was  still 
in  his  fingers. 

She  came  and  touched  his  shoulder. 

"  Are  you  going  to  leave  me,  Gaston  ?  What  does 
that  letter  say?" 

He  looked  at  her  kindly,  with  a  protective  tender- 
ness. 

"  Read  the  letter,  Andree,"  he  said. 

She  did  so,  at  first  slowly,  then  quickly,  then  over 
and  over  again.  He  stood  motionless  in  the  window. 


256  THE  TRESPASSER. 

She  pushed  the  letter  between  his  fingers.  He  did 
not  turn. 

"I  cannot  understand  everything,  but  what  she 
says  she  means.  Oh,  G-aston,  what  a  fool,  what  a  fool 
you've  been ! " 

After  a  moment,  however,  she  threw  her  arms  about 
him  with  animal-like  fierceness. 

"  But  I  can't  give  you  up — I  can't ! "  Then,  with 
another  of  those  sudden  changes,  she  added,  with  a 
wild  little  laugh :  "  I  can't,  I  can't,  0  Master  of  the 
Hounds ! " 

There  came  a  knock  at  the  door.  Annette  entered 
with  a  letter.  The  postman  had  not  delivered  it  on 
his  rounds,  because  the  address  was  not  correct.  It 
was  for  madame.  Andree  took  it,  started  at  the  hand- 
writing, tore  open  the  envelope,  and  read : 

"Zoug-Zoug  congratulates  you  on  the  conquest  of  his 
nephew.  Zoug-Zoug's  name  is  not  George  Maur,  as  you  knew 
him.  Allah's  blessing,  with  Zoug-Zoug's ! 

"What  fame  you've  got  now — dompteuse,  and  the  sweet 
scandal!" 

The  journalist  had  found  out  Zoug-Zoug  at  last, 
and  Ian  Belward  had  talked  with  the  manager  of  the 
menagerie. 

Andree  shuddered  and  put  the  letter  in  her  pocket. 
Now  she  understood  why  she  had  shrunk  from  Gaston 
that  first  night  and  those  first  days  in  Audierne  :  that 
strange  sixth  sense,  divination — vague,  helpless  pre- 


MAN  AND  WOMAN  FACE  THE  INTOLERABLE.    257 

science.  And  here,  suddenly,  she  shrank  again,  but 
with  a  different  thought.  She  hurriedly  left  the  room 
and  went  to  her  chamber. 

In  a  few  moments  he  came  to  her.  She  was  sitting 
upright  in  a  chair,  looking  straight  before  her.  Her 
lips  were  bloodless,  her  eyes  were  burning.  He  came 
and  took  her  hands. 

"What  is  it,  Andree?"  he  said.  "That  letter, 
dear!" 

She  looked  at  him  steadily. 

"  You'll  be  sorry  if  you  read  it." 

But  she  gave  it  to  him.  He  lighted  a  candle,  put 
it  on  a  little  table,  sat  down,  and  read.  The  shock 
went  deep ;  so  deep  that  it  made  no  violent  sign  on 
the  surface.  He  spread  the  letter  out  before  him. 
The  candle  showed  his  face  gone  grey  and  knotted 
with  misery.  He  could  bear  all  the  rest :  fight,  do  all 
that  was  right  to  the  coming  mother  of  his  child  ;  but 
this  made  him  sick  and  dizzy.  He  felt  as  he  did 
when  he  waked  up  in  Labrador,  with  his  wife's  dead 
lips  pressed  to  his  neck.  It  was  strange  too  that 
Andree  was  as  quiet  as  he:  no  storm — misery  had 
gone  deep  with  her  also. 

"  Do  you  care  to  tell  me  about  it?  "  he  said. 

She  sat  back  in  her  chair,  her  hands  over  her  eyes. 
Presently,  still  sitting  so,  she  spoke. 

Ian  Belward  had  painted  them  and  their  van  in 
the  hills  of  Auvergne,  and  had  persuaded  her  to  sit 


258  THE  TRESPASSER. 

for  a  picture.  He  had  treated  her  courteously  at  first. 
Her  father  was  taken  ill  suddenly,  and  died.  She 
was  alone  for  a  few  days  afterwards.  Ian  Belward 
came  to  her.  Of  that  miserable,  heart-rending,  cruel 
time, — the  life-sorrow  of  a  defenceless  girl,— Gaston 
heard  with  a  hard  sort  of  coldness.  The  promised 
marriage  was  a  matter  for  the  man's  mirth  a  week 
later.  They  came  across  three  young  artists  from 
Paris — Bagshot,  Fancourt,  and  another — who  camped 
one  night  beside  them.  It  was  then  she  fully  real- 
ised the  deep  shame  of  her  position.  The  next  night 
she  ran  away  and  joined  a  travelling  menagerie.  The 
rest  he  knew.  When  she  had  ended  there  was  silence 
for  a  time,  broken  only  by  one  quick  gasping  sob  from 
Gaston.  The  girl  sat  still  as  death,  her  eyes  on  him 
intently. 

"  Poor  Andree !     Poor  girl ! "  he  said  at  last. 

She  sighed — how  pitifully ! 

"  What  shall  we  do  ?  "  she  asked. 

He  scarcely  spoke  above  a  whisper : 

"  There  must  be  time  to  think.  I  will  go  to 
London." 

"You  will  come  back?" 

"  Yes — in  five  days,  if  I  live." 

"I  believe  you,"  she  said  quietly.  "You  never 
lied  to  me.  When  you  return  we  will  know  what  to 
do."  Her  manner  was  strangely  quiet.  "A  little 


MAN  AND  WOMAN  FACE  THE  INTOLERABLE.    259 

trading  schooner  goes  from  Douarnenez  to  England 
to-morrow  morning,"  she  went  on.  "  There  is  a  no- 
tice of  it  in  the  market-place.  That  would  save  the 
journey  to  Paris." 

"Yes,  that  will  do  very  well.  I  will  start  for 
Douarnenez  at  once." 

"  Will  Jacques  go  too  ?  " 

"No." 

An  hour  later  he  passed  Delia  and  her  father  on 
the  road  to  Douarnenez.  He  did  not  recognise  them, 
but  Delia,  seeing  him,  shrank  away  in  a  corner  of  the 
carriage,  trembling. 

Jacques  had  wished  to  go  to  London  with  Gaston, 
but  had  been  denied.  He  was  to  care  for  the  horses. 
When  he  saw  his  master  ride  down  over  the  place, 
waving  a  hand  back  towards  him,  he  came  in  and 
said  to  Andree : 

"  Madame,  there  is  trouble — I  do  not  know  what. 
But  I  once  said  I  would  never  leave  him,  wherever  he 
go  or  whatever  he  did.  Well,  I  never  will  leave  him 
— or  you,  madame — no ! " 

"  That  is  right,  that  is  right,"  she  said  earnestly ; 
"  you  must  never  leave  him,  Jacques.  He  is  a  good 
man ! " 

When  Jacques  had  gone  she  shut  herself  up  in  her 
room.  She  was  gathering  all  her  life  into  the  com- 
pass of  an  hour.  She  felt  but  one  thing  :  the  ruin  of 
her  happiness  and  Gaston's. 


260  THE  TRESPASSER. 

"He  is  a  good  man,"  she  said  over  and  over  to 
herself.  And  the  other— Ian  Bel  ward  ? — All  the  bar- 
barian in  her  was  alive ! 

The  next  morning  she  started  for  Paris,  saying  to 
Jacques  and  Annette  that  she  would  return  in  four 
days. 


CHAPTER  XVIII. 

"  RETURN,  0   SHULAMITE  !  " 

ALMOST  the  first  person  that  Gaston  recognised  in 
London  was  Cluny  Yosse.  He  had  been  to  Victoria 
Station  to  see  a  friend  off  by  the  train,  and  as  he  was 
leaving,  Gaston  and  he  recognised  each  other.  The 
lad's  greeting  was  a  little  shy  until  he  saw  that  Gaston 
was  cool  and  composed  as  usual — in  effect,  nothing 
had  happened  !  Cluny  was  delighted,  and  opened  his 
mind : 

"  They'd  kicked  up  a  deuce  of  a  row  in  the  papers, 
and  there'd  been  no  end  of  talk ;  but  he  didn't  see 
What  all  the  babble  was  about,  and  he'd  said  so  again 
and  again  to  Lady  Dargan." 

"  And  Lady  Dargan,  Cluny  ? "  asked  Gaston 
quietly. 

Cluny  could  not  be  dishonest,  though  he  would 
try  hard  not  to  say  painful  things. 

"  Well,  she  was  a  bit  fierce  at  first — she's  a  woman, 
you  know ;  but  afterwards  she  went  like  a  baby ;  cried, 
and  wouldn't  stay  at  Cannes  any  longer :  so  we're  back 


262  THE  TRESPASSER. 

in  town.  We're  going  down  to  the  country,  though, 
to-morrow  or  next  day." 

"  Do  you  think  I  had  better  call,  Cluny?"  Gaston 
ventured  suggestively. 

"  Yes,  yes,  of  course,"  Cluny  replied,  with  great 
eagerness,  as  if  to  justify  the  matter  to  himself. 

Gaston  smiled,  said  that  he  might — he  was  only 
in  town  for  a  few  days, — and  dropped  Cluny  in  Pall 
Mall.  / 

Cluny  came  running  back. 

"  I  say,  Bel  ward,  things'll  come  around  just  as 
they  were  before,  won't  they  ?  You're  going  to  cut 
in,  and  not  let  'em  walk  on  you  ?  " 

"  Yes,  I'm  '  going  to  cut  in,'  Cluny  boy." 

Cluny  brightened. 

"  And  of  course  it  isn't  all  over  with  Delia,  is  it  ?  " 
He  blushed. 

Gaston  reached  out  and  dropped  a  hand  on  Cluny's 
shoulder. 

"  I'm  afraid  it  is  all  over,  Cluny." 

Cluny  spoke  without  thinking. 

"  I  say,  it's  rough  on  her,  isn't  it  ?  " 

Then  he  was  confused,  hurriedly  offered  Gaston  a 
cigarette,  a  hasty  good-bye  was  said,  and  they  parted. 

Gaston  went  first  to  Lord  Faramond.  He  encount- 
ered inquisition,  cynical  humour,  flashes  of  sympathy, 
with  a  general  flavour  of  reproach.  The  tradition  of 
the  Commons !  Ah,  one  way  only :  he  must  come  back 


"RETUKN,  0  SHULAMITE!"  263 

alone — alone — and  live  it  down.  Fortunately,  it  wasn't 
an  intrigue — no  matter  of  divorce — a  dompteuse,  lie 
believed.  It  must  end,  of  course,  and  he  would  see 
what  could  be  done.  Such  a  chance — such  a  chance 
as  he  had  had  !  Make  it  up  with  his  grandfather,  and 
reverse  the  record — reverse  the  record :  that  was  the 
only  way.  This  meeting  must,  of  course,  be  strictly 
between  themselves.  But  he  was  really  interested  for 
him,  for  his  people,  and  for  the  tradition  of  the  Com- 
mons. 

"I  am  Master  of  the  Hounds  too,"  said  Gaston 
dryly. 

Lord  Faramond  caught  the  meaning,  and  smiled 
grimly. 

Then  came  Gaston's  decision — he  would  come  back 
— not  to  live  the  thing  down,  but  to  hold  his  place  as 
long  as  he  could :  to  fight. 

Lord  Faramond  shrugged  a  shoulder. 

"Without— her?" 

"  I  cannot  say  that." 

"  With  her,  I  can  promise  nothing — nothing.  You 
cannot  fight  it  so.  No  one  man  is  stronger  than 
massed  opinion.  It  is  merely  a  matter  of  pressure. 
No,  no ;  I  can  promise  nothing  in  that  case." 

The  Premier's  face  had  gone  cold  and  disdainful. 
Why  should  a  clever  man  like  Belward  be  so  infatu- 
ated ?  He  rose,  Gaston  thanked  him  for  the  meeting, 


264  THB  TRESPASSER. 

and  was  about  to  go,  when  the  Prime  Minister,  tapping 
his  shoulder  kindly,  said : 

"  Mr.  Belward,  you  are  not  playing  to  the  rules  of 
the  game."  He  waved  his  hand  towards  the  Chamber 
of  the  House.  "  It  is  the  greatest  game  in  the  world : 
she  must  go !  Do  not  reply.  You  will  come  back 
without  her — good-bye ! " 

Then  came  Eidley  Court.  He  entered  on  Sir  Wil- 
liam and  Lady  Belward  without  announcement.  Sir 
"William  came  to  his  feet,  austere  and  pale.  Lady  Bel- 
ward's  fingers  trembled  on  the  lace  she  held.  They 
looked  many  years  older.  Neither  spoke  his  name,  nor 
did  they  offer  their  hands.  Gaston  did  not  wince,  he 
had  expected  it.  He  owed  these  old  people  something. 
They  lived  according  to  their  lights,  they  had  acted 
righteously  as  by  their  code,  they  had  used  him  well — 
well  always. 

"  Will  you  hear  the  whole  story  ?  "  he  said. 

He  felt  that  it  would  be  best  to  tell  them  all. 

"  Can  it  do  any  good  ?  "  asked  Sir  William. 

He  looked  towards  his  wife. 

"  Perhaps  it  is  better  to  hear  it,"  she  murmured. 
She  was  clinging  to  a  vague  hope. 

Gaston  told  the  story  plainly,  briefly,  as  he  had  told 
his  earlier  history.  Its  concision  and  simplicity  were 
poignant.  From  the  day  he  first  saw  Andree  in  the 
justice's  room  till  the  hour  when  she  opened  Ian  Bel- 
ward's  letter,  his  tale  went.  Then  he  paused. 


"RETURN,  0  SHULAMITE!"  265 

"I  remember  very  well,"  Sir  William  said,  with 
painful  meditation :  "  a  strange  girl,  with  a  remarkable 
face.  You  pleaded  for  her  father  then.  Ah,  yes,  an 
unhappy  case ! " 

"  There  is  more  ?  "  asked  Lady  Belward,  leaning  on 
her  cane.  She  seemed  very  frail. 

Then  with  a  terrible  brevity  Gaston  told  them  of 
his  uncle,  of  the  letter  to  Andree :  all,  except  that 
Andree  was  his  wife.  He  had  no  idea  of  sparing  Ian 
Belward  now.  A  groan  escaped  Lady  Belward. 

"And  now — now,  what  will  you  do?"  asked  the 
baronet. 

"I  do  not  know.  I  am  going  back  first  to  An- 
dre~e." 

Sir  William's  face  was  ashy. 

"  Impossible  ! " 

"  I  promised,  and  I  will  go  back." 

Lady  Belward's  voice  quivered : 

"  Stay,  oh,  stay,  and  redeem  the  past.  You  can, 
oh,  you  can  outlive  it." 

Always  the  same  :  live  it  down ! 

"  It  is  no  use,"  he  answered ;  "  I  must  return." 

Then  in  a  few  words  he  thanked  them  for  all,  and 
bade  them  good-bye.  He  did  not  offer  his  hand,  nor 
did  they.  But  at  the  door  he  heard  Lady  Belward  say 
in  a  pleading  voice — 

"  Gaston ! " 

He  returned.     She  held  out  her  hand. 
18 


266  THE  TRESPASSER. 

"  You  must  not  do  as  your  father  did,"  she  said. 
"  Give  the  woman  up,  and  come  back  to  us.  Oh !  am 
I  nothing  to  you — nothing  ?  " 

"  Is  there  no  other  way  ? "  he  asked,  gravely,  sor- 
rowfully. 

She  did  not  reply.  He  turned  to  his  grand- 
father. 

"  There  is  no  other  way,"  said  the  old  man,  sternly. 
Then  in  a  voice  almost  shrill  with  pain  and  indigna- 
tion, he  cried  out  as  he  had  never  done  in  his  life : 
"  Nothing,  nothing,  nothing  but  disgrace  !  My  God 
in  heaven!  a  lion- tamer — a  gipsy!  An  honourable 
name  dragged  through  the  mire !  Go  back,"  he  said 
grandly ;  "  go  back  to  the  woman,  and  she  to  her  lions 
— savages,  savages,  savages ! " 

"Savages  after  the  manner  of  our  forefathers," 
Gaston  answered  quietly.  "  The  first  Gaston  showed 
us  the  way. — His  wife  was  a  strolling  player's  daugh- 
ter. Good-bye,  sir." 

Lady  Belward's  face  was  in  her  hands. 

"Good-bye — grandmother,"  he  said  at  the  door, 
and  then  he  was  gone. 

At  the  outer  door  the  old  housekeeper  stepped 
forward,  her  gloomy  face  most  agitated. 

"  Oh,  sir !  oh,  sir !  you  will  come  back  again  ?  Oh, 
don't  go  like  your  father !  " 

He  suddenly  threw  an  arm  about  her  shoulder, 
and  kissed  her  on  the  cheek. 


"RETURN,  0  SHULAMITE!"  267 

"  I'll  come  back — yes,  I'll  come  back  here — if  I 
can.  Good-bye,  Hovey." 

In  the  library  Sir  William  and  Lady  Belward  sat 
silent  for  a  time.  Presently  Sir  William  rose,  and 
walked  up  and  down.  He  paused  at  last,  and  said,  in 
a  strange,  hesitating  voice,  his  hands  chafing  each 
other : 

"  I  forgot  myself,  my  dear.  I  fear  I  was  violent. 
I  would  like  to  ask  his  pardon.  Ah,  yes,  yes." 

Then  he  sat  down  and  took  her  hand,  and  held  it 
long  in  the  silence. 

"  It  all  feels  so  empty— so  empty !  "  she  said  at 
last,  as  the  tower-clock  struck  hollow  on  the  air. 

The  old  man  could  not  reply,  but  he  drew  her 
close  to  him,  and  Hovey,  from  the  door,  saw  his  tears 
dropping  on  her  white  hair. 

Gaston  went  to  Manchester  Square.  He  half 
dreaded  a  meeting  with  Alice,  and  yet  he  wished  it. 
He  did  not  find  her.  She  had  gone  to  Paris  with  her 
uncle,  the  servant  said.  He  got  their  address.  There 
was  little  left  to  do  but  to  avoid  reporters,  two  of 
whom  almost  forced  themselves  in  upon  him.  He 
was  to  go  back  to  Douarnenez  by  the  little  boat  that 
brought  him,  and  at  seven  o'clock  in  the  morning  he 
watched  the  mists  of  England  recede. 

He  chanced  to  put  his  hand  into  a  light  overcoat 
which  he  had  got  at  his  chambers  before  he  started. 
He  drew  out  a  paper,  the  one  discovered  in  the  so- 


268  THE  TRESPASSER. 

licitor's  office  in  London.  It  was  an  ancient  deed  of 
entail  of  the  property,  drawn  by  Sir  Gaston  Belward, 
which,  through  being  lost,  was  never  put  into  force. 
He  was  not  sure  that  it  had  value.  If  it  had,  all 
chance  of  the  estate  was  gone  for  him ;  it  would  be 
his  uncle's.  Well,  what  did  it  matter  ?  Yes,  it  did 
matter :  Andree  !  For  her  ?  No,  not  for  her  !  He 
would  play  straight.  He  would  take  his  future  as  it 
came :  he  would  not  drop  this  paper  into  the  water. 

He  smiled  bitterly,  got  an  envelope  at  a  public- 
house  on  the  quay,  wrote  a  few  words  in  pencil  on  the 
document,  and  in  a  few  moments  it  was  on  its  way  to 
Sir  William  Belward,  who  when  he  received  it  said : 

"  Worthless,  quite  worthless  !  But  he  has  an  hon- 
est mind — an  honest  mind  !  " 

Meanwhile,  Andree  was  in  Paris.  Leaving  her 
bag  at  the  Gare  Montparnasse,  she  had  gone  straight 
to  Ian  Bel  ward's  house.  She  had  lived  years  in  the 
last  few  hours.  She  had  had  no  sleep  on  the  journey, 
and  her  mind  had  been  strained  unbearably.  It  had, 
however,  a  fixed  idea,  which  shuttled  in  and  out  in  a 
hundred  shapes,  but  ever  pointing  to  one  end.  She 
had  determined  on  a  painful  thing — the  only  way. 

She  reached  the  house,  and  was  admitted.  In  an- 
swer to  questions,  she  had  an  appointment  with  mon- 
sieur. He  was  not  within.  Well,  she  would  wait. 
She  was  motioned  into  the  studio.  She  was  outward- 


"RETURN,  0  SHULAMITE!"  269 

ly  calm.  The  servant  presently  recognised  her.  He 
had  been  to  the  menagerie,  and  he  had  seen  her  with 
Gaston.  His  manner  changed  instantly.  Could  he 
do  anything  ?  No,  nothing.  She  was  left  alone.  For 
a  long  time  she  sat  moticaless,  then  a  sudden  restless- 
ness seized  her.  Her  brain  seemed  a  burning  atmos- 
phere, in  which  every  thought,  every  thing  showed 
with  an  unbearable  intensity.  The  terrible  clearness 
of  it  all — how  it  made  her  eyes,  her  heart  ache  !  Her 
blood  was  beating  hard  against  every  pore.  She  felt 
that  she  would  go  mad  if  he  did  not  come.  Once  she 
took  out  the  stiletto  she  had  concealed  in  the  bosom 
of  her  cloak,  and  looked  at  it.  She  had  always  car- 
ried it  when  among  the  beasts  at  the  menagerie,  but 
had  never  yet  used  it. 

Time  passed.  She  felt  ill ;  she  became  blind  with 
pain.  Presently  the  servant  entered  with  a  tele- 
gram. His  master  would  not  be  back  until  the  next 
morning. 

Very  well,  she  would  return  in  the  morning.  She 
gave  him  money.  He  was  not  to  say  that  she  •  had 
called.  In  the  Boulevard  Montparnasse  she  took  a 
cab.  To  the  menagerie,  she  said  to  the  driver.  How 
strange  it  all  looked  :  the  Invalides,  Notre  Dame,  the 
Tuileries  Gardens,  the  Place  de  la  Concorde !  The 
innumerable  lights  were  so  near  and  yet  so  far :  it  was 
a  kink  of  the  brain,  but  she  seemed  withdrawn  from 
them,  not  they  from  her.  A  woman  passed  with  a 


270  THE  TRESPASSER. 

baby  in  her  arms.  What  a  pretty,  sweet  face  it  had ! 
— the  light  from  a  kiosk  fell  on  it  as  she  passed.  Why 
did  it  not  have  a  pretty,  delicate  Breton  cap  ?  As  she 
went  on,  that  kept  beating  in  her  brain — why  did  not 
the  child  wear  a  dainty  I5"°ton  cap — a  white  Breton 
cap  ?  The  face  kept  peeping  from  behind  the  lights 
— without  the  dainty  Breton  cap  ! 

The  menagerie  at  last.  She  dismissed  the  cab, 
went  to  a  little  door  at  the  back  of  the  building,  and 
knocked.  She  was  admitted.  The  care-taker  ex- 
claimed with  pleasure.  She  wished  to  visit  the  ani- 
mals ?  He  would  go  with  her ;  and  he  picked  up  a 
light.  No,  she  would  go  alone.  How  were  Hector 
and  Balzac,  and  Antoinette?  She  took  the  keys. 
How  cool  and  pleasant  they  were  to  the  touch !  The 
steel  of  the  lantern  too — how  exquisitely  soothing ! 
He  must  lie  down  again :  she  would  wake  him  as  she 
came  out.  No,  no,  she  would  go  alone. 

She  went  to  cage  after  cage.  At  last  to  that  of 
the  largest  lions.  There  was  a  deep  answering  purr 
to  her  soft  call.  As  she  entered,  she  saw  a  heap  mov- 
ing in  one  corner — a  lion  lately  bought.  She  spoke, 
and  there  was  an  angry  growl.  She  wheeled  to  leave 
the  cage,  but  her  cloak  caught  the  door,  and  it  snapped 
shut. 

Too  late.     A  blow  brought  her  to  the  ground. 

She  had  made  no  cry,  and  now  she  lay  so  still ! 

The  watchman  had  fallen  asleep  again.     In  the 


"RETURN,  0  SHULAMITE!"  271 

early  morning  he  remembered.  The  greyish  golden 
dawn  was  creeping  in,  when  he  found  her  with  two 
lions  protecting,  keeping  guard  over  her,  while  an- 
other crouched  snarling  in  a  corner.  There  was  no 
mark  on  her  face.  The  point  of  the  stiletto  which 
she  had  carried  in  her  cloak  had  pierced  her  when  she 
fell. 

In  a  hotel  near  the  Arc  de  Triomphe  Alice  Wing- 
field  read  the  news.  It  was  she  who  tenderly  pre- 
pared the  body  for  burial,  who  telegraphed  to  Gaston 
at  Audierne,  getting  a  reply  from  Jacques  that  he  was 
not  yet  back  from  London.  The  next  day  Andree 
was  found  a  quiet  place  in  the  cemetery  at  Mont- 
martre. 

In  the  evening  Alice  and  her  relative  started  for 
Audierne. 

On  board  the  Fleur  tf  Orange  Gaston  struggled 
with  the  problem.  There  was  one  thought  ever  com- 
ing. He  shut  it  out  at  this  point,  and  it  crept  in  at 
that.  He  remembered  when  two  men,  old  friends, 
discovered  that  one,  unknowingly,  had  been  living 
with  the  wife  of  the  other.  There  was  one  too  many 
— the  situation  was  impossible.  The  men  played  a 
game  of  cards  to  see  which  should  die.  But  they  did 
not  reckon  with  the  other  factor.  It  was  the  woman 
who  died. 

Was  not  his  own  situation  far  worse?    With  his 


272  THE  "TRESPASSER. 

uncle  living — but  no,  no,  it  was  out  of  the  question  ! 
Yet  Ian  Belward  had  been  shameless,  a  sensualist,  who 
had  wrecked  the  girl's  happiness  and  his.  He  himself 
had  done  a  mad  thing  in  the  eyes  of  the  world,  but  it 
was  more  mad  than  wicked.  Had  this  happened  in 
the  North  with  another  man,  how  easy  would  the 
problem  have  been  solved  ! 

Go  to  his  uncle  and  tell  him  that  he  must  remove 
himself  for  ever  from  the  situation?  Demand  it, 
force  it  ?  Impossible — this  was  Europe. 

They  arrived  at  Douranenez.  The  diligence  had 
gone.  A  fishing-boat  was  starting  for  Audierne.  He 
decided  to  go  by  it.  Breton  fishermen  are  usually  shy 
of  storm  to  foolishness,  and  one  or  two  of  the  crew 
urged  the  drunken  skipper  not  to  start,  for  there  were 
signs  of  a  south-west  wind,  too  friendly  to  the  Bay 
des  Trepasses.  The  skipper  was,  however,  cheerfully 
reckless,  and  growled  down  objection. 

The  boat  came  on  with  a  sweet  wind  off  the  land 
for  a  time.  Suddenly,  when  in  the  neighbourhood  of 
Point  du  Kaz,  the  wind  drew  ahead  very  squally,  with 
rain  in  gusts  out  of  the  south-west.  The  skipper  put 
the  boat  on  the  starboard  tack,  close-hauled  and  close- 
reefed  the  sails,  keeping  as  near  the  wind  as  possible, 
with  the  hope  of  weathering  the  rocky  point  at  the 
western  extremity  of  the  Bay  des  Trepasses.  By  that 
time  there  was  a  heavy  sea  running ;  night  came  on, 
and  the  weather  grew  very  thick.  They  heard  the 


"RETURN,  0  SHULAMITE!"  273 

breakers  presently,  but  they  could  not  make  out  the 
Point.  Old  sailor  as  he  was,  and  knowing  as  well  as 
any  man  the  perilous  ground,  the  skipper  lost  his 
drunken  head  this  time,  and  presently  lost  his  way 
also  in  the  dark  and  murk  of  the  storm. 

At  eight  o'clock  she  struck.  She  was  thrown  on 
her  side,  a  heavy  sea  broke  over  her,  and  they  were  all 
washed  off.  No  one  raised  a  cry.  They  were  busy 
fighting  Death. 

Gaston  was  a  strong  swimmer.  It  did  not  occur 
to  him  that  perhaps  this  was  the  easiest  way  out  of 
the  maze.  He  had  ever  been  a  fighter.  The  seas 
tossed  him  here  and  there.  He  saw  faces  about  him 
for  an  instant — shaggy  wild  Breton  faces, — but  they 
dropped  away,  he  knew  not  where.  The  current  kept 
driving  him  inshore.  As  in  a  dream,  he  could  hear 
the  breakers — the  pumas  on  their  treadmill  of  death. 
How  long  would  it  last  ?  How  long  before  he  would 
be  beaten  upon  that  treadmill — fondled  to  death  by 
those  mad  paws?  Presently  dreams  came — kind, 
vague,  distant  dreams.  His  brain  flew  like  a  drunk- 
en dove  to  far  points  of  the  world  and  back  again. 
A  moment  it  rested.  Andree!  He  had  made  no 
provision  for  her,  none  at  all.  He  must  live,  he  must 
fight  on  for  her,  the  homeless  girl,  his  wife  ! 

He  fought  on  and  on.  No  longer  in  the  water,  as 
it  seemed  to  him.  He  had  travelled  very  far.  He 
heard  the  clash  of  sabres,  the  distant  roar  of  cannon, 


274  THE  TRESPASSER. 

the  beating  of  horses'  hoofs — the  thud-thud,  tread- 
tread  of  an  army.  How  reckless  and  wild  it  was! 
He  stretched  up  his  arm  to  strike — what  was  it? 
Something  hard  that  hruised :  then  his  whole  body 
was  dashed  against  the  thing.  He  was  back  again, 
awake.  With  a  last  effort  he  drew  himself  up  on  a 
huge  rock  that  stands  lonely  in  the  wash  of  the  bay. 
Then  he  cried  out,  "  Andree  !  "  and  fell  senseless — 
safe. 

The  storm  went  down.  The  cold,  fast-travelling 
moon  came  out,  saw  the  one  living  thing  in  that  wild 
bay,  and  hurried  on  into  the  dark  again ;  but  came 
and  went  so  till  morning,  playing  hide-and-seek  with 
the  man  and  his  Ararat. 

Daylight  saw  him,  wet,  haggard,  broken,  looking 
out  over  the  waste  of  shaken  water.  Upon  the  shore 
glared  the  stone  of  the  vanished  City  of  Ys  in  the 
warm  sun,  and  the  fierce  pumas  trod  their  grumbling 
way.  Sea-gulls  flew  about  the  quiet  set  figure,  in 
whose  brooding  eyes  there  were  at  once  despair  and 
salvation. 

He  was  standing  between  two  worlds.  He  had  had 
his  great  crisis,  and  his  wounded  soul  rested  for  a 
moment  ere  he  ventured  out  upon  the  highways  again. 
He  knew  not  how  it  was,  but  there  had  passed  into 
him  the  dignity  of  sorrow  and  the  joy  of  deliverance  at 
the  same  time.  He  saw  life's  responsibilities  clearer, 
duties  swam  grandly  before  him.  It  was  a  large 


"RETURN,  0  SHULAMITE!"  275 

dream,  in  which,  for  the  time,  he  was  not  conscious  of 
those  troubles  which,  yesterday,  had  clenched  his  hands 
and  knotted  his  forehead.  He  had  come  a  step  higher 
in  the  way  of  life,  and  into  his  spirit  had  flowed  a  new 
and  sobered  power.  His  heart  was  sore,  but  his  mind 
was  lifted  up.  The  fatal  wrangle  of  the  pumas  there 
below,  the  sound  of  it,  would  be  in  his  ears  for  ever, 
but  he  had  come  above  it ;  the  searching  vigour  of  the 
sun  entered  into  his  bones. 

He  knew  that  he  was  going  back  to  England — to 
ample  work  and  strong  days,  but  he  did  not  know  that 
he  was  going — alone.  He  did  not  know  that  Andree 
was  gone !  that  she  had  found  her  true  place :  in  his 
undying  memory. 

So  intent  was  he,  that  he  did  not  see  a  boat  making 
into  the  bay  towards  him. 


(i) 


THE  END. 


14  DAY  USE 

RETURN  TO  DESK  FROM  WHICH  BORROWED 

LOAN  DEPT. 

This  book  is  due  on  the  last  date  stamped  below,  or 

on  the  date  to  which  renewed. 
Renewed  books  are  subject  to  immediate  recall. 


WVi*.  

REC'D 

kinu      7  »r*c    p*  DM 

NUV    /  65~5  •  M 

LOAN  DEPT. 

^ssftsssa?          B-agga-. 

The  trej 


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